


And So It Goes

by raemanzu, spica_tea



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friendship, Gen, In Character, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 112,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raemanzu/pseuds/raemanzu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spica_tea/pseuds/spica_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 4x10, Garak and Julian start to associate less compared to before. This attempts to fill in the gaps about what is happening behind the scenes between them, starting after their misadventure in the holosuite. Canon-Compliant if you agree that Garak's pansexuality remained loosely canon despite the writers trying to hush it up. This fic is supposed to be realistic, so we are trying to be in character as much as possible. If you don't like Garak/Bashir, but like their friendship, you should still easily enjoy this fic. Also treating a Stitch in Time as canon for the most part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Hollow, Sweet Victory

**Author's Note:**

> This story is written by raethewriter and edited and partially plotted by spica_tea. 
> 
> This chapter spans episode 4x10 to episode 4x19, starting with the end of "Our Man Bashir" and ending just after "Hard Time", with references to happenings in between.

Garak smiled at his reflection as he tied a bow tie for the third time in his life. Last night had certainly turned out much better than he'd expected, all things considered. Faced with the doctor's unusual bad temper and their ridiculously narrow escape from death by laser, earthquake, or molten lava, it was a wonder he had made it out of there with no more than a "flesh wound" to the neck.

He paused a moment, smoothing his crisp, white, uncomfortably restrictive shirt collar. The wound was gone now, of course—Bashir had seen to that as soon as they'd made their exit from the holosuite. All's well that ends well, Garak thought to himself, before remembering the words came from that trite human playwright, Shakespeare. But it fit well enough in this circumstance. Since in the end Bashir had agreed—indeed, extended the invitation himself—to have lunch together in the holosuite, Garak had decided to treat all the tension of the previous night as part of the same ridiculous game.

Quark's was busy for an afternoon, and Garak had to squeeze past a few rather large aliens to get to the stairs, but soon he had risen above the crush and stood at the corner of the balcony, waiting for his handsome young friend to appear. All the irritation and loneliness of the past few weeks was forgotten as he watched the crowd below with casual interest.

"All set in your costume I see."

Garak turned happily, about to compliment Bashir on his ability to approach unnoticed, but he was immediately distracted by the sight of Chief O'Brien dressed in the same eye-patch and coat as the night before.

"Yes, I decided I'd rather err on the side of being over-dressed," Garak said quickly, turning his eyes onto Bashir, who was wearing a tux as well. "A good thing, too, if—as it seems—we're about to perform a re-enactment of last night's drama. Will Major Kira be joining us as well?"

"No," the doctor said with an embarrassed half-smile. "Just Chief O'Brien."

"Can't play a James Bond program without a proper villain!" O'Brien said, in what Garak supposed was meant to be a gruff, menacing voice.

"Exactly," Bashir smiled, hands behind his back. "So, shall we go see what Mona Luvsitt has prepared for lunch?"

"Does your character normally ask his arch enemies to dine with him?" Garak couldn't help asking as O'Brien moved to enter the holosuite ahead of him.

"The program becomes a bit more flexible when one of my friends is playing Falcon," Bashir informed him.

"I see," Garak said quietly. This wasn't exactly what he had had in mind.

...

"You sure you wouldn't like a martini, Mr. Garak?" Mona Luvsitt asked, leaning over in a most suggestive manner.

"Quite sure, but thank you my dear."

"Probably a wise precaution," Bashir said in his suave voice. He was staring over his glass at "Falcon". "Our one-eyed guest is not particularly trustworthy."

"If I'd wanted to poison you, I'da done it already," O'Brien laughed obnoxiously over Mona Luvsitt's protestations. "Besides, you think I'm too scared to get you in hand-to-hand combat?"

"I'd say poisoning is no more cowardly than trying to stab me while my back is turned."

It had been like this for the entire meal. Bashir and O'Brien kept falling in and out of character, making not-so-subtle death threats and snide remarks without really getting anywhere. They would have been absolute failures at interrogation. Garak fiddled with his napkin, considering his options for butting in. They were obviously enjoying themselves, but what part did he have to play in this? After all, he was still just Julian Bashir's friend Mr. Garak, not any particular character.

"How long will you be staying, _Falcon?_ " Garak asked politely.

O'Brien paused in the middle of brandishing a knife at Bashir. "What's your hurry? Am I not welcome?"

"I was simply wondering if there was a purpose to your visit, apart from a lust for culturally incongruous delicacies?" Garak indicated the table spread with bits of European food. "Surely you came here to discuss something important with Mr. Bashir?"

"Of course he did," Bashir interjected pointedly, rising to his feet and leaning across the table toward O'Brien's steak knife. "So what is it, Falcon? Enough beating around the bush. What's this really about?"

As O'Brien launched into a cliché monologue about how he would never reveal his diabolical plot—even while dropping obvious hints with every half a sentence—Garak resigned himself to an afternoon of being Bashir's silent sidekick, and merely hoped he'd be allowed to do something vaguely entertaining before the end of their date.

...

With a quick blow to the wrist, Garak disarmed "Falcon" and, catching the pistol, flung it to Bashir, who trained it on O'Brien. Garak had the chief firmly in an arm-lock. They were standing on the wall of a crumbling stone bridge somewhere in the mountains, and Bashir's hair was being ruffled handsomely by an updraft.

"Too bad!" Bashir's boyish face was lit with triumphant enthusiasm, somewhat spoiling his air of pretentious mystique. "You're losing your touch, Falcon! The eye's not as sharp as it used to be, I'm afraid."

"Shall I knock him out for you?" Garak asked impatiently. He'd already forgotten how tiresome these suits became after wearing them for more than forty-five minutes. Or was it the cold wind from the canyon below them that set his teeth on edge?

O'Brien dropped his voice. "I've got to go work on the captain's replicator again in five minutes, just shoot me!"

"Aw!" Bashir scoffed. "Too easy. You disappoint me." He lowered his voice theatrically. "For the last time!"

He pulled the trigger and O'Brien flinched, then let out a dramatic gasp and went limp in Garak's grip—Garak let go at just the right moment to send him tumbling to the floor.

"A splendid performance," he said, clapping his hands together once or twice before stepping over O'Brien and toward the doctor. "I'm sure you would have been more formidable if you had been given more time."

"Yeah, well, next time we'll have to book an evening," O'Brien grumbled, getting to his feet. "Tomorrow night?"

"Surgery," Bashir sighed. "Two nights from now? Eighteen hundred hours?"

"It's a date!" O'Brien said, clapping Bashir on the arm. "Gotta run."

The holosuite exit's appearance in the empty space beside the bridge effectively dissolved the fantasy as O'Brien left, and Bashir was about to follow.

"Ah-Doctor," Garak said quickly. "Leaving so soon?"

"Well I'm supposed to be on duty in twenty minutes."

"The infirmary is only just across the promenade. I see no reason to rush away." Was it just Garak's imagination, or did Bashir seem suddenly uneasy? "Is there a problem, Doctor?" he asked innocently.

"What? No. No problem, just, ah… I thought I'd take a shower before my shift."

"I see. Well, in that case, don't let me stand in your way. I'm sure I'll see you again at lunch next week. Will we be meeting here or at the replemat?"

"Oh… I'm not sure yet."

"May I make a small suggestion?"

For a moment, Bashir's face took on a very similar look to the impatient one Garak had seen all too often last night. But the doctor just sighed, smiled, and said "of course. What is it?"

"The program might be a bit more enjoyable for all of us next time if I were to take the role of one of the pre-existing characters. I'm not sure it's entirely fair to Falcon to have to face both the great Julian Bashir _and_ his mysterious, equally dangerous ally!"

Bashir nodded briefly. "You're right. I'm sure Miles would appreciate it if the score were evened out."

"Of course," Garak smiled, following Bashir out into the noise of Quark's bar, "if you'd rather play one on one with Chief O'Brien, I'd be more than happy to resume our regular lunchtime discussions." Before last night, Bashir hadn't been showing up to their lunches for quite some time. Garak now had hope that this would change.

"Right, well," Bashir cleared his throat, nodding. "I've been pretty busy lately, but I'll see what I can do."

Busy doing what? Garak wondered.

Bashir was about to head down the stairs when he stopped and looked back at Garak. "I'm actually surprised you asked to have lunch in the holosuite. I guess I assumed that, after yesterday, you would never want to see another piece of bad 1960s furniture again."

"Believe me, Doctor. It's not the décor that drew me back."

"Am I to believe you actually enjoyed such a silly fantasy about the life of a spy?" Bashir was fighting not to let one of his adorably surprised smiles break free.

"Let's just say I learned much more from the experience than I expected." He closed the distance between them as the noise level took an upswing. "In fact, there are certain things I'm still not sure what to think of."

"I see. There must be more holes in your training with the Obsidian Order than I realized."

If only you did realize, Garak wanted to say. They don't teach us how to keep a real friendship from deteriorating. Even with a crucial friendship between important figures, if the one went too far astray from the relationship it was far easier to simply replace the one with someone more receptive. But Julian Bashir could not be replaced.

"Good day, Doctor," Garak said suddenly, with a polite nod, and left Bashir standing at the top of the stairs with a faintly puzzled look.

...

"Can't stay long." Bashir said, hurrying past where Garak was sitting to grab his food. "I'm way behind on my reports."

Garak watched him standing in line and was briefly tempted to follow him. It would give them more time to talk, but such a move would probably be too forward. He waited.

Bashir was back in good time and sat down with a sigh. "Sorry I'm late."

"Oh no, it's no problem," Garak said lightly. "I hope this doesn't sound offensive, but I've learned never to expect a Cardassian sense of punctuality from non-Cardassians." After giving Bashir a few minutes to get started on his food, he said "I have another novel to recommend."

"More Cardassian literature?" Bashir looked up reluctantly.

"Didn't you like _Meditations on a Crimson Shadow_?" Garak's voice held hurt surprise.

Bashir chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. "Well, it was certainly… poetic…."

"But too relevant to our times, I know. I think you'll like this one, Doctor." Garak pulled a rod from his pocket. "The protagonist shares certain traits with you."

"Really?" Bashir's brow furrowed. "What kind of traits?"

"Well," Garak grinned. "He's young… handsome… and—despite all odds and the selfish, individualistic influences surrounding him, he develops a _clear_ sense of duty. He makes _hard choices_. Interested?"

"Is this about what happened in the holosuite?" Bashir asked immediately.

Garak didn't speak for a moment, caught completely off guard. "Yes. Yes it is."

"If you don't mind, I would like to avoid going over that right now," Bashir said quietly, turning on his food with an unnatural amount of concentration.

"If you insist," Garak said, a bit put off by the doctor's response. "Perhaps we can discuss it once you've read the novel. It's called—"

"I'm not sure I have time to be reading novels right now," Bashir broke in.

"My dear doctor," Garak pushed on, undeterred. "They can't have you working around the clock like this. Surely you would never permit such behavior in one of your patients. Why should you allow your own health to suffer for the sake of work? If you don't even have time for a bit of light reading—"

"I appreciate your concern, but _you_ are not my doctor."

"No." Garak nodded sharply, never letting his smile slip. "I suppose you must know what's best for yourself. I assume you find playing darts with Chief O'Brien much more soothing than curling up with a classic book for a few minutes a day. Knowing you, there is a perfectly sound scientific explanation for that, and I'd be fascinated to hear it."

"Unfortunately, I don't have time to explain anything right now," Bashir sighed, scowling at his unfinished lunch. "I suppose I'll just take some of this with me."

"Good luck, Doctor," Garak called after him as he walked away. "I hope your workload gets a bit lighter sometime soon."

...

Weeks passed, and Bashir remained "busy" every time their lunch day rolled around, but Garak could find no legitimate reason why the doctor should be constantly swamped in work. All of the most interesting goings-on were not of the kind that brought unusual numbers to his infirmary. Yes, twenty-seven people died at that changeling-infiltrated conference on Earth, but that was on earth, not here. Yes, the Bajoran First Minister came aboard the station to avoid assassins, but no one managed to kill him. Garak kept his ears open for the news, as always. There was some whisper of Dukat defecting from his military command, and word that his daughter Ziyal was now on the station under the protection of Major Kira, but after the first few days Garak gave up on ever seeing this fellow Cardassian about the promenade.

One day, after another lonely lunch at the replemat, Garak passed Quark's bar and stopped dead in his tracks. What was going on? A line of people had formed beside the entrance to the bar, and they were all thanking the passers-by for _not_ going to Quark's. Garak's mood suddenly brightened. He had heard Bashir say, last he'd dared to bother him about this week's lunch meeting, that he was going to be busy in the holosuite with Chief O'Brien—with some excuse about O'Brien needing his company. But knowing the idealistic doctor, he would support this strike, which meant he was somewhere else on the station.

Fifteen minutes later Garak found himself being ushered into the brig by Odo, only to find Bashir, O'Brien, and Worf in a holding cell.

"Garak!" Bashir looked startled and embarrassed. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard you got caught in the middle of some trouble and I thought I'd come see how you were doing." Garak eyed the gash on Bashir's forehead. "I hope you're not seriously injured."

"No, it's just a scratch," Bashir said distractedly. "I tried to stop an argument between these two."

"An argument? Over what?"

"Chief O'Brien and Doctor Bashir were betting on who would pass by the upper entrance of Quark's," Odo said dryly. "Needless to say, they were shocked when Lieutenant Commander Worf ignored the strike."

The Chief and the Lieutenant Commander remained in sulky silence.

"I see. Well, I hope this won't keep you from your work, Doctor. I know you have been _very busy_ lately."

"They're spending the night, but that's all," Odo huffed.

"Was there something you wanted to say to me, Garak?" Bashir asked suddenly, stepping close to the edge of the containment field.

"Oh… nothing important. I just wanted to make sure you weren't suffering silently in some desperate need for conversation and company." As I have been, Garak wanted to say, but of course didn't. "But I can see you have plenty to keep you occupied. It's fortunate, isn't it? If you're going to spend a night in the brig, why not spend it with your best friend?"

"Yes… I suppose you're right."

"Even if he is the one that put you there."

"I take responsibility for my own actions," Bashir said quietly. "I should have called security."

"That's right," Odo said bluntly. "Alright, visiting time's over. Let's go."

...

Garak had been keeping himself confined to his tailor shop and quarters for some time. The return of some ancient Bajoran poet had caused a spike in Bajoran presence and activity on the promenade, and Garak didn't feel it would be wise to insert himself in the midst of all that anxious energy.

Now that the poet had gone back to his own time, things were finally getting back to normal, and Garak was starting to feel a little stir-crazy from having no one but the occasional customer to talk to. How had he managed before Bashir came along? Ah yes, the wire. Well, there was no going back to that.

A sudden decision took him to the infirmary. A nurse met him at the door.

"I'd like to see Doctor Bashir, please. It's urgent," Garak said, bringing a hand to his head and wincing.

"Garak? What's wrong?" Bashir was at his side in a few steps.

"These headaches. They've been coming back."

"Come on, sit down." Bashir led him over to a hospital bed and Garak sat on the edge as the doctor grabbed his medical tricorder. "Have you been taking the pills I gave you?"

"I ran out."

"Well why didn't you come ask for more?"

Garak watched the Doctor's look of concentration for a moment, those unusually deep wrinkles in his forehead. He was so dedicated to his patients.

"Garak?"

"Well, I know how _busy_ you are. I didn't want to disturb you."

"That's ridiculous. You could have asked one of the nurses for your prescription. And even if I was the only one here, it only takes a few seconds for me to hand you a bottle of pills!"

"Of course. How foolish of me. How have you been keeping up, Doctor? Have you been eating enough now that you're regularly skipping lunch?"

"Don't change the subject. Here, take some." Bashir handed Garak a new bottle of pills and a glass of water.

"I'm afraid these don't always help even in normal cases. And today my symptoms are a bit different I think."

"Different? How?" Back to the medical tricorder. "Everything checks out the same as last time you came in."

"Well, more than the pain in my skull, there's this feeling in the pit of my stomach," Garak said in an emphatic whisper which, as he'd hoped, made Bashir lean in closer.

"You have a stomachache?"

"It's not indigestion if that's what you're implying. No, it's… more of an empty feeling."

"Perhaps you're hungry."

"I just came from lunch," Garak smiled.

"What is this about, Garak?" Ah, so he'd caught on.

"Indulge my curiosity, Doctor. What are you doing with Chief O'Brien tonight, to unwind after such a stressful day at work?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? That's unusual."

"Not at all. Miles isn't on the station right now."

"Oh! When will he be back?"

"He was supposed to be back yesterday. Captain Sisko is trying to get through to the Argrathi authorities and find out what's going on."

"Oh, I do hope nothing has happened to him."

"So do I." Bashir's tone was still terse. "Now take your medicine."

"In a moment, Doctor," Garak said seriously. "First, I have something to say."

"What?" Such an uneasy look. Garak wondered what it was about him that seemed to be making the doctor so uncomfortable lately. Surely not his physical appearance—it had never bothered Bashir before.

"I understand you have your duties as the station's medical expert, and in comparison my life as a simple tailor must seem utterly dull," Garak said. "You and the Chief no doubt have much more fascinating topics to discuss. Perhaps you find comfort in commiserating about how many broken bones and broken replicators you both have to fix on a daily basis due to the carelessness of others."

"Garak… why is it any of your business what Chief O'Brien and I talk about?"

"I'm merely in search of some constructive criticism! You know how important the art of conversation is to Cardassians. If I can't hold _your_ attention, perhaps Chief O'Brien could give me some pointers in engaging humans in interesting dialogue."

Bashir sighed heavily. "I don't have time for this right now," he mumbled. "Take your medicine and report back to me tomorrow if the symptoms continue. That will be all."

With a dismissal like that, the only thing Garak could do was smile politely and say, "Good evening then, Doctor. Feel free to drop by if you want some company tonight," before he left the room.

...

Breakfast with Odo resumed now that Odo wasn't overwhelmed with keeping order on the promenade. Garak was just wondering whether it would be impolite to ask Odo for details about Bashir and O'Brien's latest escapades now that O'Brien was back on the station, when the Constable cleared his throat.

"Have you heard of the Argrathi?"

"I don't know much about most species from the Gamma Quadrant, I'm afraid."

"Mm." Odo shook his head, pretending to take a sip from his "mug". "They've developed a rather interesting form of incarceration. Somehow, they can give their criminals the experience of years in prison, even decades, but in reality only a few hours have passed."

"Fascinating," Garak said sincerely, but with an edge of reserve. "I suppose on the one hand it is benevolent of them to not take so many years from the span of a person's life."

"On the other hand…." Odo frowned as his mug refilled. "They have that much longer to live with the effects. Either way, I suppose they should be admired for their… efficiency."

"The Argrathi… isn't that the species which was detaining Chief O'Brien?"

"Yes. He's now recovering from twenty years of incarceration, and quite frankly I'm not sure what to do with him except give him more time in the brig."

"And why's that?" Garak was all ears.

"He's been irritable and unstable ever since he came back. He attacked Quark last night, all because Quark didn't get him his drink fast enough." Odo rolled his eyes.

"Don't they have a saying, on Earth, about the Irish having bad tempers?" Garak asked.

"I know what you're thinking—this isn't the first time O'Brien's been in a fight at Quark's. But this is different. Even Doctor Bashir can't get through to him. Captain Sisko has relieved him of duty until further notice."

"Well," Garak said softly. "That _is_ different."

That afternoon he went to try and find the good doctor, hoping he might be able to bridge the gap a bit by offering any help he could give. Doctor Bashir was not in the infirmary, nor in his quarters, nor at Quark's playing darts or in costume. Garak gave up and went back to his tailor shop.

Later that night he was on his way to his quarters when he rounded a corner to find himself alone in a hallway with Bashir on the other end. The doctor looked exhausted and distracted. Garak wondered if it would be kinder to leave him alone, and was about to turn around when Bashir took notice.

"Oh. Garak."

"Doctor," Garak said, with a polite nod. "I was just heading to my quarters. You look like you could use some rest."

"Actually, I don't think I'll be sleeping much tonight," Bashir muttered as he came closer. "Are you busy?"

"I'm at your disposal, Doctor," Garak said, a small smile spreading over his face.

"Perhaps we could… talk… over tea or something."

"A splendid idea. Where would you like to go?"

A few minutes later they were sitting down in Bashir's quarters—not the ones in Hong Kong—and Garak's full attention was turned on his distressed friend.

"Long day at the infirmary I take it?"

"You could say that," Bashir groaned, putting a hand over his eyes for a moment. "I had a very close call with a patient."

"But, I assume, your medical expertise has saved another life. You should congratulate yourself."

"It wasn't any medical expertise," Bashir said bitterly, leaning back and taking a slow sip of Tarkalean Tea. He lowered his voice so it was barely audible. "Don't tell Chief O'Brien I told you. But he almost committed suicide today."

"Suicide?" Garak stared, unsure of whether Bashir was joking. "Why?"

"He's suffering from a form of post-traumatic stress because of his incarceration with the Argrathi."

"Yes, Constable Odo informed me about their methods."

"He wouldn't talk to me," Bashir said softly, staring into space while cradling his mug. "It was… as if… I dunno. He was on the other side of this… impassable chasm and I just couldn't get to him. For a moment I honestly thought I was going to have to watch him shoot himself."

Bashir's eyes refocused onto Garak. His face had such a charming innocence to it, even when drawn with worry.

"Well," Garak said. "I believe you must have a talent I don't quite possess."

"And what's that?"

"The ability to move past that distance. If Chief O'Brien is still alive, you must have found some way to get through to him." Garak slowed his words for emphasis. "To help him understand how much his friendship means to you."

Bashir stared back at Garak for a moment. "The worst part is that even though I know he was acting out of fear, I started to feel like he hated me. Like maybe I'd done something wrong, or he was just _pretending_ to like me all this time. You know, he did hate me when we first met."

"I can't imagine why," Garak said before he could stop himself.

"Well I told myself not to give up. It didn't matter if he hated me, I just didn't want to lose him."

"I understand you perfectly, Doctor. So what finally brought him out of it?"

"I told him not to let the Argrathi win. If he killed himself, they would have succeeded in stripping him of his humanity."

"Ah. You appealed to his competitive nature."

"I suppose you could say that." Bashir sighed again and took a few more sips of tea in silence. Garak waited, watching his face intently.

"I'll have to remember to appeal to your competitive nature if ever I find myself close to losing you," he finally said with a smile, when Bashir showed no sign of speaking. Even as he said it, though, he knew that making Bashir jealous would never work.

"Listen, Garak…." Bashir blew out a sigh, staring at the table. "I realize I haven't been a very reliable…."

"Friend," Garak said firmly.

"Yes." Bashir cleared his throat. "I don't want you to feel as if I dislike you. I do actually enjoy our lunches together."

"As do I, Doctor. And I've been missing your company, but I understand if you find holosuites and darts more interesting than Cardassian literature. And as I said before, you and Chief O'Brien probably have more in common than you and I; at least… on the surface."

"This has nothing to do with Cardassian literature… or even with you being a Cardassian," Bashir said awkwardly. "It's just… well…."

Garak waited for Bashir to finish his sentence, but after a near minute he had to speak.

"Are you afraid of me, Doctor? I find that very confusing, considering you've proven that you have no problem putting me in my place should the occasion arise."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bashir asked. "Are you talking about how I shot you?"

"Yes, exactly. But as I've been trying to tell you ever since, you have nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, my respect for you has only grown." He leaned closer to Bashir, speaking with quiet, fierce intensity. "When you pulled that trigger, you proved that I was wrong about you. You _can_ make hard choices. Your loyalty to Starfleet, if I may make such a comparison, is not unlike my devotion to Cardassia. And in the end you proved to me that you were taking the game seriously, not just playing at being a hero, but actually willing to take a life for what you believed in, without thinking twice."

"I'm afraid I did think twice about it," Bashir said softly.

"But all the same. You did what had to be done."

"I'm not sure if I see it as simply as you do," the doctor sighed.

"I just have one question for you, Doctor."

"And what's that?"

"Were you actually trying to kill me? You did seem dreadfully annoyed when I intruded on your fantasy, though I should remind you that at that point I had no choice in the matter."

"Garak," Bashir said exasperatedly. "If being annoyed at someone meant you wanted to kill them, O'Brien would have killed me a hundred times by now."

Garak let his constant smile widen a bit. "But you haven't answered my first question, Doctor. Are you afraid of me?"

Bashir paused, staring at Garak with narrowed eyes as if trying to see inside his brain. "Let me put it this way. I'm not sure how close I should let myself get to someone whose motives are never quite clear."

"Ah. You're still afraid that I'm not trustworthy—that I'm working for Cardassian interests, _against_ the Federation."

"That is… one… aspect of it," Bashir said guardedly.

"Well… can a man be blamed for keeping his people's best interests at heart? I don't see why that should get in the way of our having lunch together."

"It's not only about the Federation."

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer," Garak said. "Isn't that another human adage? So whether we are friends or enemies or…something else—" Bashir's mouth twitched "—I think it's in both our interests to keep seeing each other, wouldn't you agree, Doctor?"

Bashir sighed and lifted his hands, allowing himself a helpless smile that made Garak feel oddly giddy.

"Alright. You've made your point. I'm sorry. Actually, I didn't ask you here to get advice on Chief O'Brien. I wanted to apologize for how I've been avoiding you lately."

"No apology is necessary, Doctor, as long as we'll be seeing each other again." Garak hoped he wasn't beaming too broadly, but he was pleased to see that Bashir was now echoing his smiles. He'd seen too few of those in the past few months.

"I guess being brushed off by O'Brien when I was only trying to help made me realize that I didn't want to risk doing the same to you, even if I'm still not sure what you want from me."

"My dear doctor… I assure you, my intentions toward you are quite simple."

He waited for Bashir to ask him to elaborate, and he wondered how much he should say. But instead of taking the obvious opening, Bashir just took a deep breath and nodded.

"Right. Well." The doctor's eyes crinkled in a smile. "I'll see you at lunch tomorrow then. We can discuss that novel you lent me."

"I look forward to it," Garak said, pleasantly surprised that Bashir had read any of it. "And I do hope Chief O'Brien is back to his old self again soon." It was clear to him now how important the Chief's friendship was to Bashir; who was he to put himself between them? As long as the doctor could still spare some time… Garak kept his eyes wide and his face calm.

Bashir looked a bit startled at that. "I appreciate that, Garak. I really do."

"Tell him I wish him well, then."

"I will. Tomorrow afternoon, the usual time?"

"I'll be waiting," Garak said. And he knew he would be. No matter how long it took.


	2. Judgment Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter encompasses and/or references Episodes 4x23 to 4x26, and also briefly references information from "A Stitch In Time" by Andrew J. Robinson. We hope you enjoy!
> 
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"Have you ever seen the memorials in the Tarlak sector?"

The hot steam filled Garak with a kind of contentment which—rare enough in his life as a whole—had been completely nonexistent these past few years. He lay with his eyes closed, struggling to keep alert despite himself. It was too easy to take Ziyal at her word and let down his guard, but who knew? She could still be plotting to present his head to her father.

"No. Is that in the capitol?"

"Yes," he murmured, seeing it all quite clearly in his mind's eye. "Your father never took you there when you went on walks together?"

"I'm afraid not."

He opened his eyes and looked over—she was staring at him in rapt attention. "I knew the groundskeeper there, when I was a boy. It was a beautiful place. If your father ever takes you back to the capitol, you should take some pictures and send them to me. I want to see if they're still being kept up as well as when I last saw them."

Ziyal's face fell slightly.

"I'm not sure if I'll ever be welcome on Cardassia."

"That's our shared burden, my dear, but at least you know it was not your fault."

Ever since she'd shown up at that springball game, life had changed. Despite Doctor Bashir's warnings to stay away from Gul Dukat's daughter, and Kira's maternal aggression on Ziyal's behalf, Garak found he simply could not deny himself the company of a fellow Cardassian, especially one who was so eager to spend time with him. It wasn't what they thought—oh no, not at all. She was too young for him, and even if she weren't, Garak had enough sense to avoid giving Dukat more reason to wish him tortured to death. At least, in this matter anyway.

"Do you have any family, on Cardassia?" Ziyal asked.

"I'm afraid my answer remains the same as last time you asked," Garak said patiently.

"What about people you consider family? Or even just distant relatives? Is there anyone there who would be glad to see you if you could go back?"

Despite himself, Garak found his mind wandering to Enabran Tain's old house, and the image of Mila's face as he'd last seen it over the viewscreen in Odo's office. Unwillingly he thought of Tain, left to die on that ship in the Gamma Quadrant, surrounded by Jem'Hadar, and suddenly the steam was no longer relaxing, but stifling.

"I don't think so." He sat up. "Ah… I'm feeling a little dizzy. I do apologize, but I think I had better retire."

"It's alright," Ziyal said, sitting up as well. "I'll see you next time."

She held up her palm and Garak returned the gesture self-consciously, hoping she wouldn't be offended by any reluctance he did not mask. He could only think she was so innocent that she did not know exactly how forward she was being.

The chilly air outside the holosuite did clear his head, but he didn't feel much better. It had been months and months since he'd allowed himself to feel guilty about Tain, and although he kept his eyes open for any word that there may have been survivors, nothing encouraging came through. It was as if the Obsidian Order and its former leader never existed.

...

"So," Doctor Bashir said, breaking Garak out of his train of thought. "How's the I'danian Spice Pudding today?" He was smiling at Garak, clearly pleased at the inside joke.

"I'm not having any pudding today, Doctor, but I do apologize for letting my mind wander. You were saying? Another medical marvel, I'm sure—the experts back at Starfleet are probably still scratching their heads at the procedure you performed."

"Well," Bashir said, unable to hide the grin Garak was purposely trying to produce through his compliments. "It _was_ a rather complicated procedure, done under considerable stress and certainly not in ideal circumstances! Transporting a human baby from a human womb to a Bajoran womb is no easy task even when you're _not_ trapped in a damaged runabout!"

"My thoughts exactly," said Garak. "They should give you an award."

"You're teasing me. Aren't you?"

"Oh no, Doctor, I'm being quite serious," Garak replied in a grave tone, lifting a piece of fruit to his mouth with unnecessary gravity. The doctor laughed.

"Alright then, enough about me." Bashir leaned eagerly against the table. "What about you? What have you been up to while I've been away? We barely had much space to get reacquainted after all that time I spent trying to cure the Teplan blight."

"Oh, _believe_ me, I've had my own share of adventures. Unruly customers in and out of my shop all day long, never satisfied…."

"I'm not talking about your tailor shop, Garak! I'm talking about Ziyal!"

"Ah, you needn't worry," Garak made a dismissive gesture. "I haven't been doing anything indecent, which, I might add, is saying something considering how determined she seems to get close to me."

Bashir's grin faltered a little. "So it's true, you have been spending a lot of time with her?"

"When I haven't been hemming pants or having breakfast with constable Odo. But don't worry, Doctor. Now that you're back, I think I can keep my lust for companionship in check." Garak smiled in a way he knew would unnerve Bashir, but he didn't really care.

"You haven't been in the saunas, though."

"Well, can you think of a better place for two Cardassians to seek refuge from this cold, harsh environment?"

"Garak," Bashir said critically. "I really think you should reconsider this relationship."

"And what relationship are you referring to, exactly?"

"Whatever is going on between you and Ziyal."

"While I'm quite flattered by your jealousy, I assure you, it's not what you think."

"Jealousy?" Bashir cried, but Garak went on.

"Your concern is most kind, but it's really no surprise you don't understand. How could you? You're surrounded by your own species every waking moment! Did you know Ziyal has never walked around the capitol on Cardassia Prime on her own? She had to be accompanied everywhere by her father, out of fear. I'm the only Cardassian friend she has! And actually, she's the only one I have."

"Look," Bashir said, voice suddenly soft. "If you need someone to spend time with, I should have a lot more free time lately than I've been getting. Captain Sisko ordered me to take it easy after all the work I did on the blight. We could—I dunno—design a holosuite program, one based on a Cardassian mystery novel, or… just whatever you'd like to do."

"I appreciate the offer, Doctor. But this isn't about me. It's about her."

"But Major Kira and Ziyal are already very close, I'm sure it's better for both of you if she spent most of her time with her instead. It's not really fair for you to be leading her on like this, Garak. She's a young woman who barely knows anything about you and I think she's already decided she's in love with you—"

"I'm hoping that as she gets to know me, she'll realize what a mistake that would be."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then more drastic measures will have to be employed, won't they?" Garak nodded to himself. "But! Until then, who am I to rob her of her only Cardassian companion? Did you have any particular story in mind for that mystery holosuite program?"

And just like that, he'd changed the subject. Julian wasn't sure what to make of this turn of events. Up until his first meeting with Ziyal, Garak had seemed to have reached a new level of acceptance when it came to his exile on the station, especially since Julian began meeting him more than once a week, and not just at lunch. He'd begun to realize just how much Garak relied on the company he provided—or so he'd thought.

Now, suddenly, human companionship was second-rate. It was hard not to take it a bit personally after all the time they'd spent together lately.

...

"Is the constable going to be alright?" Garak asked when Bashir came out of the infirmary. The sight of Odo losing shape in his tailor shop was not an image he could quickly forget.

"He's stable for now… well, relatively. I'm hoping if he doesn't move around, his mass and density will stop fluctuating so much, so we're keeping him in the infirmary until further notice. What was Odo doing in your shop anyway, Garak?"

"I was trying to introduce him to a potential companion," Garak said simply, spreading his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Odo and I share a common bond as exiles, and I thought he could use a new friend."

Bashir looked a bit skeptical. "Who were you introducing him to?"

"A lovely Bajoran woman by the name of Chalan Aroya." Garak sighed. "Unfortunately he didn't seem very interested in her. Well, I suppose there's no accounting for taste."

"Hmm. Then I guess there's no reason to assume you're the one behind his illness, but it does seem a bit odd that you'd _suddenly_ decide to play matchmaker."

Garak gave a light gasp. "Doctor, I'm surprised at you! Don't you know me well enough by now? What reason could I possibly have to do something like this to _poor_ Odo? I've discovered that the right kind of company does wonders for my mood, and I merely thought—"

"That Odo's mood could stand to be improved," Bashir finished for him, with a tiny smirk before ducking his head in that sheepish way Garak had grown so fond of. "I see. Obviously you've found something more fulfilling in female companionship and wanted to… spread the joy!"

"Doctor," Garak laughed, shaking his head. "You aren't still trying to criminalize my friendship with Ziyal? She may be a woman, and to you, perhaps, _that_ is what matters most. But to me, she is nothing more than a piece of home."

"I understand," Bashir said, but a trace of skepticism remained in his voice. "Well. I'm going to be busy for the next several hours at least, trying to find a way to help Odo. I hope you won't be too disappointed if I can't make it to our next lunch."

"But that's not until the day after tomorrow. Surely you'll have found a cure by then!"

"Unfortunately, even I don't know that much about Odo's physiology. I can only hope the disease progresses slowly enough to give me the time I need."

"I have faith in you, Doctor. If there's anything I can do to help, just let me know."

Garak smiled and gave a short nod, which Bashir returned before they parted.

The door to Ziyal's quarters opened, bringing Garak face to face with Major Kira. A small but noticeable bump graced her belly.

"Garak," she said, inclining her head slightly. "What do you want?"

Garak gave her his most charming smile. "I was hoping to talk with Ziyal, if it's not too late in the evening. I'm glad to see you, Major."

"You are?" Kira looked startled.

"Yes! If you're here, it means she hasn't gone to bed yet."

Kira put her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowing. "Actually, I was just leaving, and yes, it is pretty late for Ziyal to be allowing someone like you into her quarters. I suggest you come back in the morning."

"Garak?" Ziyal's voice came from behind Kira and soon she appeared; Kira had little choice but to allow her room to stand in the doorway. Ziyal's face lit up when she met Garak's eyes. "Come in! Sit down!"

"I'd love to, but I'm afraid Major Kira has just reminded me that it's much too late for me to be visiting you unsupervised. It's past my bed time."

"You must need to talk."

"Ziyal," Kira began.

"Don't worry," Ziyal said. "We'll just take a short walk around the promenade. You can come with us if you're that concerned."

Kira sighed heavily and folded her arms. "Alright. Just a short walk. I'll wait here."

"Of course." Ziyal turned happily to Garak and took his arm. "Let's go upstairs where we can see the stars."

"We won't be long," Garak assured the Major, glancing back over his shoulder at her. She shook her head at him with a warning look.

The upper level was nearly empty at this hour, with the only real noise coming from Quark's bar. They'd made it about halfway down the one side before Ziyal slowed her step.

"You must be worried about that shapeshifter, Odo."

"Well, he is in Doctor Bashir's capable hands," Garak said quietly, avoiding her eyes and staring instead in the general direction of the wormhole. "He's a stubborn man. I think he'll live. If I'm not mistaken, Doctor Bashir has decided on a new method of treatment which just might work."

Ziyal followed his gaze. "You're worried about something else, then."

"I never said I was worried about anything, my dear!" Garak smiled at her. "I simply found myself alone with too many thoughts, and I realized I could use some company."

"What kind of thoughts? Are you planning something? I'm sorry, it's just… the way you're acting. It reminds me of how my father acts when he's trying to hide something from me."

Garak laughed, a little loudly in the quietness of the vacant promenade. "You're unusually perceptive for your age. Either that or I'm getting clumsy in mine. Well…! I suppose you're right. But I assure you, it's nothing for you to worry about. If I am allowed to go at all, I will be just as safe as everyone else."

"Go where?" Ziyal stopped walking, forcing him to turn and face her.

"I'll tell you all about it when I get back. I promise. I just have an old debt to repay."

...

It had been an unusual trip. After the initial moment of tension in which Garak was certain that he would be dragged back on to the station, Sisko had agreed to let him come along if he kept Odo distracted from his own suffering and deterioration. And so Garak had wiled away the hours, carefully weaving from old threads of truth a new mystery which resembled his life the way a play resembles the people acting in it.

It was uncomfortable, watching the constable's struggle against the disease. Garak sincerely hoped the other Changelings would cooperate with healing Odo, as well as answering his questions about possible Cardassian survivors. Doctor Bashir's forehead was constantly creased as he continued to work on a solution, hoping he could find a way to ease Odo's symptoms and perhaps cure them if the Founders proved unwilling to welcome him.

"I wish I could order you to rest, Odo," Bashir said miserably over a datapad.

"I'm fine, Doctor…." Odo croaked.

"But _you_ , Garak… are you tired? You've been talking for hours."

"Not at all, my dear doctor! It's been a pleasure."

"I think I've figured it out," Odo said quietly, staring at the ceiling.

"What? You think you know what's wrong with you?" Bashir asked eagerly.

"No… I think I know which ones… you assassinated, Garak…."

"Really?" Garak came closer to the bed, eyes wide and amused. "Well then, let me hear your—"

"Dax to Bashir. The Founder is on board. She's coming to see Odo—she says she can help him."

"Acknowledged."

Garak became still, and for a moment he hoped to disappear, like he had learned to do so many times, melding with his surroundings as effectively as any shapeshifter. The Founders were formidable, more dangerous than they seemed because they were clever—more clever than the Obsidian Order and the Tal Shiar. It was sensible to be afraid. But that was not why he had come. He drew upon the years of building determination, the unending desire to be affirmed in the eyes of his people, and resolved to get the Changeling's attention and have his question answered, no matter the risk.

Still, he couldn't help being a little agitated. He found himself tugging on the end of his suit, straightening it like a nervous child, while Bashir walked restlessly about checking Odo's readings on the monitors.

"How do I look, Doctor?"

...

As they were ushered out of the infirmary with the Founder's Jem'Hadar guards and a member of Starfleet Security, Garak took a deep breath, trying to keep his intimidation in check.

"You can try to talk to her when she comes out," Bashir whispered. "I just didn't think it would be wise to ignore an obvious dismissal."

"I appreciate the warning," Garak replied in a low tone, feeling a bit hemmed in by the Jem'Hadar on either side of them. "I was just hoping to get it over with."

"She seems willing enough to cooperate," Bashir sighed, clearly struggling with his own impatience and trying to stay positive. "Maybe, because we're here to help one of her kind, she'll be more receptive. Maybe she'll even give us some help in finding them. You know, this could be a real advantage—maybe the Founders will see that we don't actually want to harm anyone and we can end this war."

Garak laughed a little under his breath, nervously glancing at the Jem'Hadar who were glaring down at them. "As idealistic as ever, I see. Still… I sincerely hope your optimism turns out to have a basis in fact."

"So do I." Bashir grimaced at the door. "Well in any case, I'm glad you're here. I'm sure Odo is too."

"Thank you, Doctor," Garak said softly, staring at the door. "I'm glad I could be of some use."

Bashir patted him firmly on the shoulder. "It'll be fine. I can't think of any better circumstances for you to ask your question."

"Oh there's no need to worry," Garak said rapidly. "I certainly see your point, but if I'm unable to persuade them this time, I can be patient and wait for the next opportunity, whenever that might be. I've had to learn the art of patience after all these years—Doctor?" Bashir had unexpectedly put one of his hands on one of Garak's, catching him in the middle of fidgeting with his suit again.

"I really hope there are survivors, Garak. Your people obviously mean a great deal to you."

"Yes," Garak said, trying to counteract his anxious mannerisms with a light tone. "And I know you care about your patients a great deal as well. With any luck we'll both leave here with the results we came for."

"I thought you didn't believe in luck?" Bashir asked, turning to lean against the wall so he could face Garak and keep him from staring a hole in the door.

"I don't. At least, I don't trust it. Among other things."

"What _do_ you trust?"

"My dear doctor!" Garak laughed again, shifting in place. "You really do pick the most unusual times to try and psychoanalyze me!"

"Well you must put a lot of trust in your own people, otherwise why would you want so badly to go home? That is what this is about, isn't it? You want to rescue the survivors so that the Cardassian government will welcome you back."

"Is he like this with anyone else?" Garak turned suddenly to the security officer, who until now had been pretending not to listen to their exchange. "I've always wondered. You were in the infirmary to have your tonsils removed last week, weren't you?"

The guard stared at Garak, then at Doctor Bashir. "What? Is he—are you, uh," he cleared his throat, "talking to me?"

"Yes, of course!" Garak grinned, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Who else would I be talking to? After all, how many Jem'Hadar do you think showed up in the infirmary with tonsillitis last week?"

The guard looked a little embarrassed, and glanced at the Jem'Hadar soldiers uneasily.

"How did you know about that?" Bashir asked.

"Yes, how _did_ you know about that?" the guard hissed.

"I'm simply observant. So tell me," Garak whispered, "When the doctor was preparing you for surgery, did he ask _you_ these sorts of personal questions? I've often wondered if it's merely subconscious; an extension of his bedside manner into the realm of everyday life!"

"I don't think—"

"If I _were_ a spy, I suppose it would be awfully clever of me to befriend you, Doctor—you probably know all sorts of savory details about everyone on the station… things, no doubt, they don't even share with their _closest_ friends and family!"

"Well, it's a good thing I maintain doctor-patient confidentiality," Bashir chuckled, looking over at the guard. "Don't pay any attention to him, he's just trying to get away from answering the question—Garak! You truly are a subtle, slippery man. Have you been looking through my medical files? You could be arrested for that!"

" _Don't_ tell the constable I said this, Doctor, but if that's confidential information, there's no hope for him to maintain the level of security he claims to keep on the station. It doesn't take a spy to listen in on two people eating dinner or having drinks at Quark's."

The Jem'Hadar shifted beside him, and the poor guard was standing by, watching their playful banter with some confusion. Garak was glad for the distraction.

"Don't worry," Bashir said. "I'm sure Ensign Hane wasn't planning on confessing to Odo that he let the Cardassian tailor overhear him talking about his surgery… were you, Ensign?"

"Of course not," Ensign Hane said, starting to look a little insulted at being dragged into their jokes.

"Oh, now who's avoiding the question?" Garak broke in. "Go on, Ensign. I'm curious! Does Doctor Bashir ask anyone else such detailed questions about their inner psyche?"

Bashir was grinning. "No, Garak, only people who try to hide things from me unnecessarily."

Ensign Hane was about to speak when the door opened. It was time. Instantly the friendly, humorous atmosphere they'd built as a distraction from the tension was sucked away, as if pulled through an airlock.

The Founder addressed Bashir directly. "You can go in now, Doctor."

"Thank you," Bashir said, with slightly exaggerated politeness.

"Try not to disturb him. He needs his rest."

"I'll bear that—" Bashir shared a glance with Garak "—in mind."

The doctor walked back into the infirmary, and the Founder headed down the hall. Garak followed, bracing himself to be detained by offended Jem'Hadar at any moment.

"Excuse me, madam. May I have a moment of your time?"

"You are Cardassian." The Founder's voice was harsh.

"Ah-that's right," Garak said rapidly, chasing her retreating back and not allowing himself to miss a step. "And on behalf of my people, I'd like to learn if there were any survivors after our attack on your homeland."

She stopped and turned to face him.

"Cardassian survivors?"

At last, he had the Founder's attention. At last, the tension could be brought to a head.

"Yes." Garak nodded, all pleasantries.

"There were no Cardassian survivors."

"You mean… they're all dead?" Garak couldn't keep a smile on his face, couldn't keep the horror from his voice. It would have served no purpose anyway. There was no mistaking the note of finality in the Founder's voice.

"They're dead. _You're_ dead. Cardassia is dead. Your people were doomed the moment they attacked us." The Founder fixed him with a calm stare. "I believe that answers your question."

With some difficulty, Garak rearranged his face—which had gone slack in shock—into a strained smile.

"It was a pleasure meeting you."

As the Founder headed down the corridor with her Jem'Hadar guards, Garak was momentarily frozen. All warmth in his blood had seemed to drain away. His mind jarred itself loose and began frantically formulating a plan as he retreated back to the infirmary.

"Garak?" Bashir came to his side. "How did it go?"

"Hm? Oh. She was, ah… too _busy_ , I'm afraid—her first concern is, of course, Odo's wellbeing, and so she suggested we discuss the matter after she has settled something with Captain Sisko." He had to get away before the good doctor saw through his mask and started asking questions. Garak could not look Odo in the eye. "Now, I think I had better go get some rest after all—you'll let me know when something is decided, won't you?"

"Of course."

"Thank you, Doctor."

It wasn't long before news came to him, but every second he spent pacing in his quarters was another moment of panic hardening into resolve. By the time he heard that Odo, Bashir, and Sisko were beaming to the planet's surface, he had already made up his mind.

No matter where he went on the ship, it was freezing. He slipped down the hall and punched the security cord for the engineering crawlspace. It was a struggle to keep his fingers steady as he began overriding the weapons lockouts. At least he had managed to stay out of sight of everyone on the way here. No slip-ups, no explanations. They would never understand.

The doctor would have to forgive him. Odo, too. No more breakfasts or lunches together, but what did that honestly matter now? There was redemption in the fact that he was going to die with them—and their deaths would save the lives of countless others. Garak had not felt so numbingly afraid in years. The realization of just how merciless, how complete the destruction wrought on any opposition to the Founders could and certainly would be… it was debilitating. And anger. Somewhere inside him, the frustration of it ending like this, Tain's life and any chance to make it right again—all of this was like the desperate shooting of a cornered man. But at least it wasn't senseless. It would serve a greater cause.

I'm going to die, Garak thought. To save Cardassia… and more. He set his mind to it. And as the door opened behind him and Worf slammed him against the wall, he realized how ironic it was that the female Changeling had told him he was already dead.

...

"I have some private suspicions about you, Garak," Odo said. It had only been a few days since he'd hauled Garak off to serve his sentence: six months in the brig.

"Private suspicions? I didn't think you were the type to join in gossip about others."

"I'm not," Odo scoffed. "That's why they're _private_."

"But if you intend to share them with me, they must not be that private."

"Hm." Odo unfolded his arms and pretended to study a datapad. "I think you're too clever to have _accidentally_ missed the fact that you were being watched. I think you _wanted_ someone to stop you."

Garak stared back at Odo with a calm, pleasant expression. "Amazing, isn't it? How people go to such lengths to believe their lives are worth more than anyone else's. I hope you won't mind my saying so, Constable, but as much as I respect you, I _don't_ consider your life to be worth more than the entire Alpha Quadrant."

"And I suppose the same goes for my life as well," Bashir said as he stepped stiffly into Garak's line of sight.

"Doctor!" Garak leapt to his feet. "I'm delighted to see you!"

"Really?" There was something flat in Bashir's face and voice that indicated he did not share Garak's delight.

"Yes! I wondered if you'd be stopping by. Six months is a long time to go without seeing each other."

"Odo, would you excuse us?" Bashir asked in a brisk undertone. Odo nodded sharply and walked out. Garak tilted his head slightly as Bashir approached, still maintaining an air of mild enjoyment.

"So," Bashir said, coming to a stop a foot or so beyond the opening. "You took it upon yourself to sacrifice everyone on the Defiant… to _kill_ an entire species. Don't you think that's a bit…" Bashir paused a moment, looking at the ceiling as if it would drop the right word into his brain. "Arrogant?"

"Arrogant?" Garak repeated, letting the same venomous edge to slip between his words. "Ah. And allowing some wish to _soothe_ my own conscience and preserve the lives of a few people I know—allowing that to keep me from stopping a force capable of wiping out the entire Alpha Quadrant… you don't think _that_ would be arrogant?"

Bashir just stared at him, his face contracted with dismay.

"I know how my decision must have wounded your naïve sense of self-righteousness," Garak went on, before he could help himself. "Forgive me if I consider that a small price to pay for what I _could have accomplished_. Now, thanks to the Federation's 'higher morals,' everyone on this station, every member of the Federation, every Cardassian— _everything you know_ will almost certainly be obliterated, reduced to nothing, as if it never even _existed!_ Is that the kind of universe you want to live in, Doctor? Well, at least you never had to sacrifice anything. You were content to wait until someone else took it from you!"

Garak waited for the doctor's retort, but Bashir seemed stunned.

"How sad." Garak softened his voice again. "I see the look on your face. You're disappointed in me. Aren't you? I don't measure up to your set of values. You've forgotten how different we really are."

"Stop it, Garak," Julian breathed, his voice heavy with frustration. "Look, I don't care how you try to justify it. You can't just decide the fate of an entire race on your own!"

"No. Instead, I have to rely on the Federation to decide the fate of _my race!_ But you see, Doctor, the Federation doesn't care about what happens to Cardassia." Garak's voice rose in agitation. "I joined the mission so that I could ask the Founders whether there were any survivors from when my people attacked them, and I got my answer. There can be no mistake! It is clear to me that the Dominion has no intention of ever letting Cardassia survive this war! We have sealed our fate. The _only_ thing we can do to survive is to _kill them first_ , don't you see?! The Federation cannot possibly help Cardassia now!"

"You act as if we've already lost!" Bashir protested.

"Forgive me if I don't see things as optimistically as you do, Doctor! Perhaps the Federation will survive—who knows? But as for Cardassia…."

"Captain Sisko has tried to help the Cardassians, you know that. If it weren't for him, your people never would have been prepared for when the Klingons attacked!"

"Ah yes. The good captain was taking a terrible risk for us—sharing information with us could have made it a bit difficult to divide the spoils with the Klingons in the event we were conquered by their invasion forces."

"Well," Bashir huffed. "If that's how you really feel."

"Right now, I am being perfectly honest with my feelings," Garak replied.

"Then I suppose you'll admit once and for all that our friendship was never real."

"I beg your pardon?" Garak said, his ranting derailed.

"All our lunches, all our… discussion." Bashir paced, gesturing helplessly. "You really were just lying to me the whole time, weren't you? Well… I'm not sure why I expected that it was all actually going to lead somewhere. I was just a way for you to get information… information you could use to get back to Cardassia, isn't that right?"

"I don't see why you're taking this so personally," Garak said, still a bit disoriented. "As I said before, we may not agree on much of anything, but why should that prevent our having lunch—"

"Maybe I've realized that you're right," Bashir snapped. "I am naïve! I was starting to think that maybe it was true, maybe you did just want someone to talk to. Maybe you did find me a worthy conversation partner, and maybe you really did enjoy spending time with me. You certainly put up a good act, Garak. You should be proud of yourself. Well… I'll be more careful in the future. It's obvious to me that your priority is, and always has been, Cardassia." He was starting to use those wide, swaggering movements that meant he was being mocking. "I suppose that's what you meant about Ziyal, isn't it? She's a piece of home. She's just the next step toward your ultimate goal, isn't she?"

"Doctor, please," Garak began, but found no words came to mind. How could he explain?

"I felt sorry for you. I really did." Bashir's voice went faint, and he began to shake his head. "I thought to myself, 'I can't even imagine the loneliness. Exiled from your own people, knowing you'll never see the ones you love again.' But underneath all that, all the time, I knew it was a mistake to trust you. Because that's exactly what you wanted. Every inch of the way, every _scrap_ of truth about you, I had to fight to uncover, but it's no problem for you to barge into my holosuite programs and—sneak into my quarters and ask me to get you a runabout—"

"Please don't insult me with your pity, Doctor. Might I remind you that asking for that particular favor helped to uncover a bit of truth about Gul Dukat? Truth that helped prevent an innocent man from being separated from his innocent son?"

"It doesn't matter," Bashir said flatly.

"Doesn't it?"

"I don't know why I'm even having this conversation," Bashir mumbled to himself. "It's pointless to talk to someone who never tells the truth."

"Now that's quite an exaggeration!" Garak protested. "I did not lie about my motives for accompanying you and Odo to the Gamma Quadrant. I confessed openly my intentions to destroy the Founder's home world. What lie have I told that is so offensive to you?"

"I don't know," Bashir said.

"Well then, what's the problem?" Garak hitched a small smile back in place.

"I don't know," Bashir repeated slowly, "because I have no way of knowing which things you've said to me have been true or false."

"I thought you enjoyed a little mystery."

"Not when there are lives at stake." Bashir blew out a breath. "I'd better get back to the infirmary."

"Will I be seeing you later?" Garak asked, but Bashir only paused a second before continuing toward the door.

"I have always enjoyed our lunches," Garak called after him. "And that is not a lie."

But Bashir was gone. Garak sat down on the edge of his bunk and took a deep breath, trying not to think about how long these next six months would be.


	3. Honest Mistakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter encompasses a time frame of roughly six months, beginning with 5x3 and ending with 5x8. Some dialogue was taken directly from 5x8 ("Things Past"). Hope you enjoy! Please review!

They say time heals all wounds, but to Garak, six months of confinement in the brig was a mild form of torture. The one mercy of it was that his cell was not visually cut off from the main area, so he never had a true claustrophobia attack even though an anxious edge of restlessness settled on him that was impossible to shake. The food was redundant, and the conversation sparse.

"Constable, I wonder if you could tell me something," Garak said one day when Odo came in to check on him. "Is Captain Sisko planning to rent out the space where my tailor shop…was?"

"It's still there. I've seen no indication that he plans to do anything with it."

"Well, that is certainly a relief."

Having nothing to do was one of the worst punishments. Some days he felt he would do anything to be provided with a good ream of cloth and his tailor kit. He tried talking to Kasidy Yates, who occupied the neighboring cell; he wanted to learn more about the Maquis, but she proved quite averse to the idea of sharing pleasantries with a Cardassian of questionable loyalties. Odo occasionally took pity on him and gave him brief tidbits of news, and sometimes, if he was lucky, a particularly talkative troublemaker would be put in the brig for a few hours or days. But in the end, he only really had Ziyal's daily visit to look forward to.

Today she was dressed in a beautiful forest green outfit, one of the few on the station that Garak found himself analyzing and longing to draw patterns off of.

"Ah, Ziyal. You look particularly lovely today." He sat up to greet her and tried to appear cheerful; he had been lying on his back, miserably staring out toward the security office and thinking of certain people he had recently lost. "Not tired of seeing me yet?"

"Of course not!" Ziyal pulled up the stool she usually sat on while visiting. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"Oh, no, my dear, I wasn't asleep. I was merely… contemplating."

"Contemplating what?"

Garak allowed himself a sad smile. "How fortunate I am to have met you."

A delighted grin spread over Ziyal's face, one which she quickly supplemented with a compassionate, worried look. "I wish there were some way they could reduce your sentence."

"Oh, it's not so bad. I only have…let's see, how long has it been now?"

"A little over a month."

"Ah." Garak nodded. "You see? The time has flown." He didn't want to think about how long it had already been. Five more months. Five times more the boredom he had already suffered. Funny—when Garak had been arrested, Captain Sisko had yelled at him. Something like "have you lost your mind?!" Garak found himself slightly amused. If this was the treatment for losing one's mind, it wasn't very effective. Sisko could have a lunatic tailor on his hands by the end of this.

"Well. Tell me. What have I been missing since yesterday?"

Ziyal was not as keen an observer as many people Garak had known, but she had been trying very hard lately to notice and remember things she thought might be even vaguely interesting to Garak.

"Let's see." Ziyal stared upward thoughtfully. "Oh! You know that Klingon, Commander Worf? He and Dax are in a relationship now."

"You don't say? _Very_ interesting…."

"I heard about it from Kira. Apparently it all had something to do with Quark—Kira said a Klingon woman came aboard who was Quark's ex-wife… it's a long story…."

And as Ziyal began to tell her long and bizarre story, Garak, who normally paid close attention to the nuances of all types of relationships aboard the station, found his mind wandering again, covering its tracks with an unusually vacant smile.

...

It had been a rough day. Bashir had been dating Leeta for several months now, and this had been one of their first real arguments. He wished things weren't so slow at the infirmary—he didn't even have work to distract him.

He checked the time, and on impulse turned to the pair of nurses on duty. "Can you two handle things here while I go out for a bit, stretch my legs? You can call me if anyone comes in."

They agreed, and soon Bashir was at Quark's. O'Brien was sitting at his usual spot, eating his usual dinner.

"Julian!" O'Brien cried out. "Sit down! I can use a sympathetic ear."

"Missing Keiko?" Bashir asked, perching on the neighboring stool.

"Doctor Bashir." Quark greeted him. "What can I get for you today?"

"Oh nothing, not yet anyway," Bashir sighed.

Quark eyed them both carefully. "Looks like you two could _both_ use a drink."

"Let me _think_ about it, Quark." Bashir let himself sound a little annoyed—it was hard to feel too guilty about taking out one's frustrations on the pushy bartender.

Quark lifted his hands and put on his patient, "considerate" voice. "Take your time. I'll be right back to take your order in a few minutes."

"So?" Bashir whispered, once Quark was out of earshot.

"What? Oh, it's not Keiko. It's Molly… she called me a 'bad daddy' because I'm busy, you know."

"Oh, don't take it too hard. She's just a child—she doesn't understand."

"Eh. You're probably right. But I tell you, Julian… it's heartbreaking." O'Brien nodded to himself while chewing slowly. "I'm always afraid that someday she's going to say it, and it'll be true."

"Oh, come on," Bashir groaned. "You can't be so sensitive over the things _children_ say."

"Well, what's got you all glum, then?" O'Brien nudged him roughly with his elbow. "Bad day at work?"

"No… no, I wish that's what it was."

"What then?"

"It's Leeta."

"Your girlfriend?"

"What? Yes, of course, my girlfriend, what other Leeta would I be talking about?"

O'Brien gave Bashir a baffled shrug and returned his attention to his food. "So what happened? You two uh… break up?"

"No… it was just a little argument, that's all."

"About what?"

Bashir checked to make sure Quark was still occupied, and kept his voice low. "Garak, of all things!"

"Garak?" O'Brien blurted, much too loudly. "You and Leeta had an argument about Garak?"

" _Shh_ _!_ Not so loud!"

O'Brien looked positively befuddled. "She and him… him and her… have they even exchanged two words together?"

"I don't know, but that's not the point! Actually, I don't really want to talk about it."

O'Brien was silent for a moment. Quark came and took their orders for drinks. But the Chief kept fidgeting and his curiosity finally got the better of him.

"I can't really imagine what she'd have to say about Garak that would make you get in an argument with her. Did she uh… say she was attracted to him or something?"

" _What_ _?_ No! No… it's…." Bashir shook his head dramatically at his drink, as if disgusted at the world. "She wants me to go visit him in the brig." He took a long sip and grimaced.

"Well when _was_ the last time you visited him?"

"In the brig? I haven't been. Haven't seen him at all, not since just after he tried his little stunt and tried to kill everyone!"

"Oh." O'Brien raised his eyebrows and quickly went back to his drink. "Right. Course."

"I don't understand why it's any of her business whether I go see him—she was making it out to be some sort of... I dunno… some moral failing or something. She said she didn't want to be with someone who didn't value their friends. What is that supposed to mean?"

O'Brien shrugged again, then cleared his throat and spoke tentatively. "Why exactly haven't you visited him?"

Bashir looked at O'Brien as if he were crazy and coughed a laugh. When nothing but an awkward silence pursued, he frowned and took one last sip of his drink, smacked O'Brien on the back and said "Nevermind. Good luck with Molly." He headed back to the infirmary.

...

The dull pain and pressure in his skull was like rocks grinding together. Sharp slivers of thoughts and feelings broke off and embedded themselves in Garak's consciousness as he tried to sleep away the countless hours he had left. The cell was closing in on him… he would always be trapped here, forever, suffocating slowly under the weight of silence. Pacing didn't help. All he had left was to start talking to himself, and he wasn't sure he wanted to resort to that just yet.

"Garak?"

His eyes flew open, and he nearly gasped. The ceiling seemed frighteningly close for a moment before he got his bearings and sat up to see Ziyal approaching his cell.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You really were sleeping this time, weren't you?"

"Perhaps, but there's no need to apologize. I wasn't having very good dreams, so I'm quite glad you're here." He winced as the blood rushing to his head punctuated the ache with a sharp, throbbing pain.

"Are you alright? What's wrong?"

"Nothing at all. Not to worry. I think I just sat up too quickly." His smile felt crooked on his face from trying not to screw his eyes up against the pain.

"I don't like that they're keeping you here for so long—what if something's wrong with you? Shouldn't Doctor Bashir come and make sure?"

"My dear," Garak laughed. "If all of Doctor Bashir's patients called on him every time they sat up too quickly, he would never get any sleep! No. I'm not going to bother him about it, but—" he hurried on when he saw Ziyal bow her head in embarrassment— "you are very kind to worry yourself over me. I promise you… I am in no danger. If anything serious does happen, I'll have Odo call the infirmary right away. Does that ease your fears?"

She nodded, but her smile was small and reluctant. "I believe you."

"Thank you."

Garak studied her kind face, so familiar and yet so foreign. It was all the distraction he had. She had tried to ask him about Tain, and the painful things that she saw behind his cheery façade. But that wasn't why he relied on her.

"So… what dazzling tales of mystery and intrigue have you gleaned from the station today?"

...

"Ah. Doctor Bashir." Odo spun around in his chair to face him. "What can I do for you?"

"I've come to see Garak." Bashir stood stiffly with his hands behind his back. "How has he been, anyway?"

"He doesn't seem to take very well to confinement, but I think he'll live. Six months is honestly not that severe a punishment for what he tried to do."

"Well… I guess I can just ask him for details myself." Bashir took a deep breath, unexpectedly nervous about walking into Garak's line of sight. He tried to brace himself—no matter what, they couldn't get caught up in another argument like last time.

The robust greeting he expected didn't come. Garak was lying on his back as if asleep, breathing in a steady rhythm but, as Bashir drew closer, he could see that each breath was a little shaky.

"Are you feeling alright?" He asked. "Headache?"

Garak's eyes fluttered open wide, and he turned his head quickly to stare at Bashir. For a moment, shock showed openly on his face before his usual pleasant look kicked in. He sat up slowly.

"I'm fine, Doctor. Thank you for asking."

"You haven't had your medication for over two months. You're telling me your headaches have stopped bothering you?"

"I had Odo call one of your nurses to deliver it last week. They're under control, now. I heard you were away somewhere."

Bashir wasn't sure if it was wise to make assumptions, but he couldn't help but wonder if there was a subtle implication in how Garak worded his response. Had he purposely waited to ask for his medication until after he knew Bashir was gone?

"Yes, I was attending a medical conference and ended up answering a distress call from a Federation colony on Ajilon Prime. Turns out they had been attacked by Klingons and were in desperate need of another field medic." Bashir took a deep breath and forced himself to stop furrowing his brow so much.

"I'm sure your services were quite appreciated," said Garak, with all his usual warmth.

Bashir swallowed his guilt and cleared his throat. "I suppose. But I'm certainly glad to be back. So how's life in the brig?"

"Quite insufferable," Garak said, in an entertained tone of voice. "Except I suppose not, since I _am_ still here, suffering it. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the relative mercies of a Federation prison, but it's still not how I'd choose to spend my time."

Bashir laughed under his breath and studied his feet. "People who are being punished for attempted genocide don't have the luxury of that choice, I'm afraid."

"So I've learned. But I hope you appreciate the honesty of my response, even if it wasn't exactly what you wanted to hear." Garak's voice was light but he kept his eyes wide and fixed on Bashir. "That is what you want, isn't it?"

Bashir sighed. "You remember when we had lunch after that ordeal with the implant?"

"Of course, Doctor. I remember _all_ of our lunches."

"Well," Bashir faltered for a moment. "Do you remember when I asked you how you could so easily talk about something like spice pudding after all that had just happened?"

"Yes," Garak smiled as if they were reminiscing about a trip to Risa. "I said that I saw no point in dwelling on what was no doubt a difficult time for both of us."

"Yes…" Bashir said softly. "Well. I'm beginning to think the incident with… uh… when we were last in the Gamma Quadrant… maybe it belongs in the same category."

"The only problem with that is that everything I told you during the first incident was not particularly important for you to know about me. But it is clear to me, after our last…." Garak waved a hand, "conversation… that our relationship cannot progress any further without some kind of resolution. Unfortunately, I can't promise you that I will never do anything to offend your Federation values again."

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer," Bashir sighed heavily, looking at the floor. "I'm not sure I can trust you."

"But I never asked you to trust me, Doctor!" Garak shook his head. "In fact, I think you'll agree that I've always encouraged the opposite."

"And I've never quite understood why."

"Doctor," Garak said softly, intently, leaning forward from where he sat on his bunk. "I was never under any illusion that we had similar interests or similar goals. To be perfectly honest, I did initially approach you out of a hope that you might provide certain opportunities for me, opportunities that might lead to the end of my exile here."

"I suppose that's understandable."

Garak stood up and began to pace slowly. "I began to think we understood each other when you shot me in the holosuite. We may have separate loyalties, Doctor, but we are equally fierce about protecting our ideals, aren't we? Imagine my surprise when it turns out you didn't understand my actions against the Founders."

Bashir felt tired, the weight of what he wanted to say pressing on him with every step they took toward another argument. "Just because I understand your reasons doesn't mean I can condone them. We all have our reasons, our ways of justifying violence."

"Yes. We do." Garak was no longer smiling.

Bashir stared back, trying to decide if he should walk out now or not.

"So." Garak came closer to the opening of his cell. "If we can't agree to disagree, is there some other reason you've come to see me, after all this time?"

"I wanted to make sure you weren't suffering needlessly."

"Ah. Compassionate as ever."

"Leeta told me to come see you, weeks ago," Bashir confessed. "But it wasn't until I was being shelled by bombs on Ajilon Prime that I realized I couldn't just ignore you for four more months. Even if I did, you'd still be here on the station, once you were released. And besides… I've always tried to follow my conscience, even if it goes against convention."

"Now that's something I have always found quite attractive about you, Doctor. Tell me, how are things between you and…Leeta? I'm curious as to why she would ask you to come and see me. Does she want to place an order for a new garment?"

"No, nothing like that. She said I don't value my friends enough." Bashir kept his voice blunt and brutally honest. "She's right. If we are friends, it's wrong of me to ignore you. You were only doing what you thought was right. I still don't _agree_ , but…." Julian laughed under his breath, rocking on his feet slightly. "Well, who said friends have to agree on everything… or even trust each other?"

Garak narrowed his eyes at Bashir, smiling with his chin inclined in a way that said he understood. "Certainly not I."

Bashir didn't mention all the sleep he'd lost over the past few weeks as he'd tried to avoid his guilt, or how he'd felt all the angrier because of that guilt—after all, he wasn't the one who had tried to destroy a planet full of sentient life forms, including his own friends. He didn't mention how, as he had found himself nearly panicking in the midst of a storm of bombs exploding on every side, his first horrible thought had been how, if he died, he and Garak could never be reconciled.

He was still a bit baffled by how important Garak's happiness was to him, but it was all the more confusing because deep down, he knew he had trusted Garak before, otherwise his "betrayal" wouldn't have been so infuriating. Now that trust was damaged. And more than that, he was frustrated at how it seemed impossible for them to truly be on the same side.

"Doctor? You still seem a bit distressed."

Bashir broke out of his thoughts and shook his head. "I suppose I am, a little. It's just… well, it'll probably take some time for me to get used to… to uh…." He wasn't sure how he meant to finish that sentence. "Well, nevermind. I imagine you've been bored out of your wits these last two months. Have you had many visitors?"

"Oh, just Ziyal… and Captain Sisko, actually, once or twice, but it was brief. Otherwise it's just me and… the silence of my cell." Garak motioned around as if surrounded by friends. "You're certainly welcome to change that, if you'd like."

"I think I will. It's my turn to recommend a book to discuss isn't it?" Bashir swayed in place, thinking. "Hmm… have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?"

"I believe you have mentioned him before. He was some sort of investigator, wasn't he?"

"A fictional detective, famous for his ability to analyze tiny clues about a person, and then deduce all sorts of information such as… where they last ate, how many family members they have, that sort of thing."

"Well that sounds fascinating! Provided, of course, his leaps of reason _are_ actually reasonable."

"Oh, that's up for debate, but I think the theory is sound, even if it's not always executed perfectly."

Bashir felt the weight slowly lifting off his shoulders. Perhaps he was projecting his feelings, but Garak seemed to look much better than when he'd come in. Still, the image of him lying there breathing shakily remained lodged in his mind. He hoped he could prevent as many lonely hours like that as possible.

Besides, he felt an odd sort of security now. For some reason, being with Leeta and knowing Garak was being pursued by Ziyal made him feel like he and Garak almost had a normal friendship.

...

"So then, I told him that I was conducting a study on work-related stress." Bashir was leaning close to the edge of the containment field of Garak's cell, grinning. "And Miles pulled something out of the panel he was 'repairing' and the lights went out! All the lights on the entire deck!"

"Oh dear!" Garak exclaimed. "How did they react?"

Slowly, little by little, things were starting to feel normal between them again. The time passed more quickly for Garak now that Bashir was speaking with him again, and the doctor, for his part, was feeling more cheerful in general.

"Well, when he put it back, the lights came back on. I said to the engineer, 'I've seen enough!' and I told the Chief it was time for him to go to sick bay." Bashir sat back triumphantly.

"My dear doctor," Garak laughed. "I must say, you _are_ getting better at… improvising. It's a skill one must never be complacent about improving, you know."

"Well, I couldn't very well risk disrupting the timeline by telling the truth, now could I? I mean, it's bad enough we ended up rummaging around on _the_ Enterprise—James Kirk's Enterprise!—and what with people getting involved in that fight in the mess hall…." Bashir sat back, shaking his head at it all in childlike astonishment. "O'Brien did pretty well, too, actually. He asked the engineer not to mention this to anyone, and the man wished him a quick recovery from his 'work-related stress'!"

"You know, I've been thinking." Garak's face took on a distant, excited look. "Starfleet could use a training program for Federation officers where they can learn the subtle art of improvisation. Do you think Captain Sisko might consider recommending me as a candidate for professorship?"

"I'll relay that request to him first thing in the morning," Bashir laughed and sipped his raktajino. "I'm sure he'll be able to land you the job as soon as you're out of prison."

"I look forward to it!" Garak nodded, ignoring the undercurrent of tension that was still detectable in the doctor's voice. "Ah! It's not that far off now, is it? Only another month. I suppose I can start making plans."

"Plans? Like what?" Bashir frowned, putting his mug down with a suspicious look.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, Doctor. I'd just like to get off this station for a little while," Garak exclaimed. "As happy as I'm sure I'll be to resume my work in the shop, I think I could use a little fresh air and sunshine after six months in this cell!"

"Oh, well in that case… let's see. Would you like me to find you an excuse to leave? Did you have any particular destination in mind?"

"Somewhere close. It doesn't really matter, as long as it's warmer than here."

Bashir sighed. "I suppose Bajor's out of the question."

"Well, if you can find a good reason for the Bajoran authorities to allow me a few days on their lovely planet, I'd be more than happy to go to Bajor."

"Wait a minute." Bashir suddenly sat back in his seat, turning his mug slowly in his hands. "There's a conference going on about a week after your release… it's a historical examination of the Occupation, but I heard they're open to allowing anyone to speak, even Cardassians—as long as they're respectful of course."

"Well! Wouldn't that be interesting?" Garak stood up, easily excited by the idea of interaction with anyone after such prolonged isolation. "I'm always up for a good debate. Bajor it is! Will you be giving a presentation there, Doctor? Something about how the occupation impacted the health of the parties involved, I assume?"

Bashir suddenly took an unusual interest in his coffee cup. "Actually, I'm not planning to attend."

"You have other plans?" Garak didn't let his disappointment darken his tone.

"Mm. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. Leeta and I are going to Risa the week before, but then I have another medical conference immediately following, and that's going to overlap with the historical conference."

"Oh, I see. Your brilliance runs in high demand," Garak proclaimed. "Well, I suppose I'll have to manage without your company. We can compare notes when we get back." The mischievous tone never left his voice. He was in higher spirits today than he had ever been since his arrest. Still, there was no mistaking the rift that remained between them. Garak was careful to tread a bit softly around certain topics and not ask too many personal questions—like what Bashir and Leeta would be doing on Risa, for example. Then again, the general idea of what people did on Risa was usually the same no matter who was going.

"Maybe you could take Ziyal with you," Bashir suggested. "If you think she would like to go, that is."

"Well… I suppose she is half-Bajoran," Garak mused. "I'll mention it to her tomorrow when she comes in. But it's unlike you to encourage us to spend time alone."

"I assume you won't be alone much. Captain Sisko was planning on attending."

"Oh, well in that case…." Garak trailed off, not sure he wanted to have Sisko bringing up his 'questionable decisions' in front of Ziyal. He'd explained his reasons to her for what he'd done, but all the same, he was starting to realize that he might be more comfortable expressing his opinions without her present.

"'In that case' what?" Bashir looked at him suspiciously. "Are you saying there's no point in inviting her if you two aren't going to be alone? That's not at all incriminating."

"Oh no, you misunderstand me!" Garak laughed a little. "I was just struck with the realization that Ziyal could have an entirely different view of things than either the Bajorans or the Cardassians."

"All the more reason for her to go!"

"I suppose you're right. Perhaps if she sees my true nature, she might be dissuaded from dropping any more obvious hints about me being the perfect man for her to marry."

"Has she actually said that?" Bashir looked amused despite himself.

"Not in those words, exactly, but her intentions are quite clear to anyone who's paying attention. She often laments that her father and I don't get along. I do feel sorry for her, Doctor… it seems none of the people she loves can stand being in the same room with each other."

"That does make for a bit of an awkward family dynamic."

"Yes." Garak sighed. "Well, I'll just have to keep dropping my own obvious hints."

"Perhaps you need to make them a bit _more_ obvious. Anyway, I've got to run, I need to check up on Kira."

"Thank you for coming, Doctor. I hope you have a good time on Risa."

"Thank you." Bashir's smile seemed strained. Garak couldn't help but wonder why, but he held his peace. It was probably a reflection of the state of their relationship, he thought, more than anything out of the ordinary.

...

The conference was not quite as exhilarating or relaxing as Garak had hoped it would be. Ziyal had decided not to go, saying she had prior commitments with Major Kira. And even as Garak ordered a drink from the ship's replicator and sought some commiseration about how lacking in debate the conference had been, no one else seemed to share his opinion.

An empty feeling still remained in him at the thought of how Doctor Bashir had only met with him once since his release from confinement. Still, Garak couldn't help but look forward to talking with him again. Even if their conversation was bound to include references to his and Leeta's vacation on Risa, at least Bashir didn't label him a "former Cardassian oppressor." Well, not outwardly. Either way, their approach to DS9 was something to celebrate.

And then, suddenly, something hit the ship.

The next thing Garak knew, he was being shaken awake by an unfamiliar Bajoran, and opened his eyes to a horrible sight. He knew it instantly: Terok Nor under Cardassian rule. The filth and chaos was all too familiar.

He helped Odo up and hurried to a spot out of the way. They were in the Bajoran sector, and if they didn't get out of sight soon, there was a good chance they might be attacked. His mind worked in a frenzy to catch up. This was certainly not a dream. It was all too real, too vivid, and he was too aware of the fact that just a moment ago, he had been sipping tea on a Federation ship.

Sisko sat down once they'd found somewhere relatively private. "This is Terok Nor—DS9 during the occupation."

"Time travel?" Dax asked.

"No, it's more than that," Garak said instantly, still glancing around at the Bajorans passing by them. "Our clothes have changed." He had instantly noticed that his usual fashionable attire had been replaced by a rather garish red vest and nondescript trousers. None of the others had fared much better, either.

"Could we be in a holosuite?" asked Odo.

Sisko said, "Computer, end program," but nothing changed. "Let's assume that's a no for the moment."

"Benjamin." Dax leaned closer to Sisko. "We're not attracting any attention."

"And we should be," Sisko said, echoing Garak's own thoughts. "Humans, Trills, and Changelings didn't just stroll through Terok Nor unnoticed."

"Well, I should be getting some attention as well," Garak said tensely. "We are in the Bajoran sector and Cardassians weren't exactly welcome here."

"I don't think they see you as Cardassian," Sisko said. "I'm beginning to think they don't see any of us as who we really are."

"The clothes we're wearing are Bajoran!" Garak pointed out. "They're treating us like Bajorans."

As they discussed the possibility of trans-dimensional shifts and went over what the plasma phenomena they'd noticed on sensors might have done to their minds, Garak noticed that Odo was looking particularly distressed by all of this. He certainly could relate; his own experience with the Terok Nor that now surrounded them was not one he had ever wanted to revisit, especially not in such a direct way.

To make matters worse, neither Odo, Sisko, nor Dax seemed receptive to his plan to approach the authorities and convince them that he was an undercover operative. He wanted to get off this station as soon as he could and find a way back home… or the closest thing he had to a home.

When Gul Dukat showed up, Garak knew this was not going to be one of his better days.

"You!" a Cardassian soldier approached Dax and took her by the arm. "Come with us."

"What has she done?" Sisko demanded as she was dragged away.

"Nothing," said the other soldier. "Yet."

"Perhaps there's been some misunderstanding." Garak stepped forward, reluctantly abandoning his higher place on the raised platform where they'd been talking, and approached the soldier, who was much taller than him. "If I may be so bold—" he motioned to the one holding Dax to lower his weapon— "You may find something which will bring you _infinitely_ more profit than the arrest of a Bajoran woman."

"Latinum?" said the soldier.

Garak did a vague imitation of one of Quark's greedy smiles. "Two strips."

"Where is it?"

"Ah… well, our friend is still in your custody."

For a moment, he thought it might work, but Dukat chose that moment to pass them on the upper level of the promenade, and the soldier took this opportunity to show his loyalty by punching Garak square in the nose so hard that Garak flew backward into some barrels.

Through the haze of pain, as the first soldier dragged him to his feet, Garak let his hand drift close to the soldier's belt and slipped the Cardassian's scanning device up his sleeve.

Once the soldiers were gone, he allowed himself a moment to process just how much his nose hurt, and realized it was bleeding. No, this was definitely not a dream.

...

His nose hurt, his back hurt, his fingers reeked of cleaner, and the plates full of food scraps he had scraped off the tables smelled even worse. Garak was miserable. In comparison to this, the cell he'd just spent six months in seemed like a vacation. It was really no wonder that he had turned on the implant in his brain after just a short time of being exiled here. This place embodied all the worst moments of Garak's life.

Not that his life was going to last much longer.

"Timor, Ishan, and Jillur were the names of three Bajorans who were accused of attempting to assassinate Gul Dukat on the promenade," Odo was saying. Using the scanner he'd stolen, Garak had revealed their Bajoran identities earlier—they _were_ Timor, Ishan, and Jillur.

"Half the resistance tried to kill Dukat," Sisko said.

"These three were innocent," Odo growled under his breath. "However, no one knew that at the time, and Dukat wanted to make an example of them, so he had them led out onto the promenade and… publicly executed."

Garak took a short breath, still squinting against his aching nose. "If we're them…."

"If we're them," Sisko continued for him. "We'd better find a way out of here before Dukat makes an example out of us."

"Excuse me!" Quark interrupted their whispering. "Did I promise _three_ five-minute breaks? No, I did not, I said _two_. One twelve-hour shift, two five-minute breaks. Get back to work or you don't get your slip of latinum, _and_ you'll be working for another five hours!"

Garak hurriedly went back to collect the last two trays of scraps. Well, he was currently out of ideas. Trying to talk to the authorities hadn't worked, and honestly, now that he thought about it, he wondered why he'd suggested it in the first place. Had he really forgotten so quickly how sloppily this place had been run? Well, with Dukat in charge, of course there was no sense to anything. Still, he had to think of something. To die in some alternate dimension which seemed personally designed to torment him—and Odo, apparently—without another chance to….

 _To what_ _?_ He asked himself. Six months ago, it would have been another chance to redeem himself in the eyes of Tain and the rest of Cardassia. Now Tain was gone, and Garak's obsession seemed emptier than before. It was something he had thought all too much about during the last six months.

...

When the explosion went off, they were eating watery, disgusting soup with a Bajoran resistance member. He was supposed to be their ticket out of there. But then there was a flash of light and Dax and Dukat were lying motionless on the ground. Odo tried to stop Sisko from running to her—something Garak knew to avoid instinctively—but in the end they were all arrested.

The brig was nearly unrecognizable—dark and noisy and filled to capacity with unruly Bajorans. Garak found himself strung tight with irritation. Luckily, someone from Cardassian security made them all shut up and came to accuse them of making a bomb out of cleaning solution from Quark's and materials they'd supposedly bought from a chemist's shop.

As much as Garak held few illusions about all Cardassians being infallible, he had hope that their case would be dealt with rationally. But, although Odo brought up many relevant points, their investigator dismissed them all.

"You were seen rushing _toward_ Dukat after the explosion. Everyone else was running away."

"I wanted to help my friend," Sisko protested. "She was injured in the blast!"

"The report of the Cardassian guard states that you were found over the body of Gul Dukat, attempting to strangle him."

" _That's a lie!_ "

It burst from Garak's mouth before he could stop it. He could hardly contain the frustration he felt. Just how blind did these so-called Cardassians have to be to believe such a ridiculous thing? Even from where Garak had been standing, it had been obvious what was going on. He felt disgusted and resentful toward the man in front of him for claiming to uphold any sense of Cardassian justice.

As Odo continued to raise his voice more and more desperately in defense of reason, Garak felt himself mentally backing away from the entire situation. For a moment, he wondered—although really, there was no comparison—if this was the type of disappointment Bashir had felt toward him six months ago. Of course, there was no chance for error with the Changelings; they _were_ responsible for the obliteration of Tain and the rest of the Cardassian fleet that had attacked the Founders' home world. There was no doubt about that in Garak's mind.

But still, Bashir had expected a certain pattern of behavior from Garak, and apparently, Garak had betrayed that pattern, just as this Cardassian was breaking the pattern of behavior Garak expected from his own people. It was sickening.

He wondered if he only felt this way because of the bizarre circumstances they were in. If he were a Cardassian soldier on the other side of this containment field, looking at three Bajorans who seemed more likely than anyone else to be guilty, wouldn't _he_ feel confident that some punishment should be carried out?

...

Hours later, their fate seemed to have been decided. Dax had shown up, and they'd made a good attempt at a prison break. They got pretty far, even shooting a few Cardassian guards before encountering the inspector, who was actually a Changeling. Then, just like that, they had reappeared in their cell as if they'd been transported there. Whatever was going on, whatever force held them in its power, it wasn't going to be thwarted by a couple of phasers. And yet, Garak was less willing than ever to let the matter rest.

He had to talk to Doctor Bashir. No matter if his decisions were wrong or right, he wanted to express the understanding he had come to about what had happened between them. He thought of the effortless warmth that used to exist back in the day when he could bring Delavian chocolates to the infirmary and Bashir would be grateful rather than embarrassed or unnerved. Would they ever find themselves in such a place again?

Odo began ranting about how they had to find another way out. Garak stood attentively, and suddenly it started to make sense. The Founders had something to do with this, and it was because of Odo.

"How could Thrax be a Changeling?" Sisko was asking. "At this time period, the Founders didn't know about the wormhole."

"I don't know," Odo growled, pacing with his arms folded, shivering.

Garak turned his attention onto the constable. Very curious, his behavior. "Putting aside the newest shapeshifter in town for the time being, how did we end up back in this cell?"

"I don't know!" Odo repeated.

"Care to guess?" Dax asked. The others seemed to be coming to the same conclusion.

Odo moved away from her. "What makes you think I have the answer?"

"You've been acting strangely ever since we first woke up on the promenade," Sisko pointed out calmly. "Continually distracted, depressed, and agitated."

"And you knew the names of the people we're supposed to be," Garak continued.

"You knew the details of the case like you were there!" said Sisko.

Garak leapt in. "But you couldn't have been there because it happened before you came aboard the station."

Odo's pacing was getting more frantic. Sisko pressed him again.

"Everything seems to lead back to you and I want to know why!"

For half a moment, it seemed like they were going to get some answers out of the constable, but then the inspector showed up and Odo followed him out to discuss the details of the case.

"Why do you think Odo's trying to hide what's going on?" Dax asked from her spot on the floor.

"I'm not sure," said Sisko. "I don't want to believe he's betrayed us, if that's what you mean, but he definitely knows something. Perhaps the Founders shared some of their plans with him, plans he hoped they wouldn't act on, but didn't want to share because he was afraid _we_ would harm his people in retaliation. What _I_ don't understand is what this has to do with being here, at this time, on Terok Nor?"

"Well, remember, this may not be a dream, but it's certainly not our usual reality," Garak pointed out. "There was less than a second between when we were outside this cell and when we found ourselves back inside it."

"This could all be an elaborate illusion of some kind," Sisko muttered into his fist. "We don't know what sort of technology the Founders might possess. But what _purpose_ does it serve?"

"Perhaps this is just another way of punishing Odo for betraying his people?" Garak suggested. "After all, they could have easily decided that turning him into a human wasn't very effective in putting him back on the right path."

A thought flickered across Garak's mind. Some sort of punishment device, Bashir had once called his implant. How quickly he had assumed that Garak was the victim of his society, rather than one of the people who had worked through unpleasant means to protect it. It was so unusual, and so naively blind. It was no wonder Garak couldn't help but love the man.

As Dax and Sisko continued to debate the possibilities of what was going on, moving back to theories of spatial anomalies and chroniton radiation, Garak leaned against the back wall of the cell and took a deep breath, closing his eyes and hoping that whatever Odo was telling the other Changeling would get them out of here before their execution in half an hour.

He lost himself in reliving whatever pleasant memories he could dredge up. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes before Sisko and Dax suddenly fell silent, and Garak opened his eyes to find himself on the upper level of the promenade, staring at Odo while the others looked around, similarly confused.

The sound of phaser fire made them turn around to face a parallel walkway, where one of three Bajorans had just been shot by a small Cardassian firing squad. The other two kneeled facing the rail, waiting for death, and were shot one by one. As Odo gasped beside him, Garak recognized a second Odo dressed in Cardassian clothing standing with the Cardassian soldiers on the other walkway.

Then, all of it vanished.

"Constable?" Sisko said softly.

Odo gripped the rail, nodding slowly. "That's exactly how it happened seven years ago."

"It was you all along."

"Yes. I was chief of security on the promenade. _I_ was the one who charged those men with a crime they didn't commit, and _I_ was the one who turned them over to Dukat."

Garak glanced at Dax and Sisko, who were listening raptly. He kept his eyes open for the other Changeling, waiting for something to happen at any moment, something to reveal the trap they'd just been dropped into.

But Odo just went on in his sad, grim voice. "Three days after the executions, there was another bombing on the promenade, identical to the one that almost killed Dukat. Timor, Ishan, and Jillur… were innocent. All the evidence was there… the inconsistencies… the reports of the soldiers who arrested them… the pattern of bombings, the ballistics…." He shook his head. "It was all there from the beginning. But I was too busy… too concerned with maintaining order and the rule of law."

Garak's attention was slowly brought back to Odo. It seemed he wasn't the only one who had been re-evaluating his ideas of how things ought to be done. The tone in the constable's voice was fitting for the regret Garak was fighting, but he didn't expect to be able to replicate that kind of earnestness if he ever spoke to Bashir again. Was that what he would have to do to set this right? Come forward, vulnerable and ashamed despite all his experience telling him he had to stand his ground? He wasn't even sure that he'd been wrong at all.

"I thought of myself as the outsider, a shapeshifter who cared for nothing but justice. It never occurred to me that I could fail, but I did. And I never wanted anyone to know the truth." Odo lifted his head and took a long, shaky breath. "That seven years ago, I allowed three innocent men to die…."

Suddenly, the room faded. Everything seemed to melt, and Garak felt, for a short but horrifying moment, completely detached from his body. Then his eyes opened, and relief flooded him. He knew that ceiling.

He was in sick bay. And that was Doctor Bashir's voice, nearby. Garak sat up slowly, glad to feel in sync with his limbs again. He looked over at Bashir, who was running a medical tricorder over Captain Sisko. Of course. The Captain is top priority. Worf was helping Dax sit up.

All Garak could do was stare at Bashir from across the room, waiting for him to notice that he was awake. But it couldn't wait.

"Ah-Doctor," he called, and Bashir turned, unexpectedly breaking into one of those gorgeous smiles that had first drawn Garak toward the young genius.

"How are you feeling? Well enough to sit up, I see."

"Yes, I appear to be alright—though, my nose _still_ hurts." Garak put a hand to it briefly.

"You gave me quite a scare for a moment, when it started bleeding." The doctor ran a quick scan of Garak. "But you're on the mend." Bashir put a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly for only his ears. "It's good to see you, Garak. You'll have to tell me all about whatever it was you experienced in the last few hours. And about how the historical conference went."

"Of course, but—I'd like to speak with you privately if you don't mind."

"Of course. We can have dinner in my quarters later."

It was hard not to get derailed by the unexpected invitation to dinner. "Ah-no, I really think it should be now."

Bashir looked surprised for a moment, and then nodded. "Alright, just give me a moment to check Jadzia."

Garak watched and waited, startled by the way Bashir seemed to have forgotten to maintain the small barrier of personal space he'd been insisting on lately, especially now that they had no containment field between them. That trip to Risa must have really been something.

Soon Bashir was back at his side, leading him around the corner by the elbow into a vacant corner of the infirmary.

"So, what is it?" Bashir's expression was open and patient.

"Well, I just…." Garak paused, feeling unsure of himself now that it had come to it. "I realized something in the last few hours that I wanted to share with you. I think I understand now why you were so… _upset_ by what I tried to do."

"Garak," Bashir said, stepping backward with a half amused, half exasperated look on his face as if Garak had just told a bad joke. "Is this really necessary? I understand! You did what you felt you had to do. I can't blame you for that…." Bashir's voice went low and serious. "Even if it _was_ absolutely the wrong thing to do."

For a moment, there was something in Bashir's eyes and tone of voice that made Garak think Bashir was still angry with him, but then it was gone. Well, he could hardly be sure of anything at the moment, having just woken up from a very realistic hallucination. He blinked, and suddenly Bashir was putting an arm around his shoulders and leading him back toward the others, speaking softly.

"I say we just forget the whole thing. So, are you coming to dinner tonight?"

"Well, if you don't think Leeta will mind."

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Bashir stopped and turned to face him. "Leeta and I aren't together anymore. We split up while we were on Risa."

"Ah," Garak said, wishing his brain would process all this information more quickly. "So… I take it one or both of you found other companions on Risa?"

"No, we went there to undergo a Bajoran separation ritual. Well, I suppose Leeta might have found another 'companion'… turns out she's been attracted to Rom for quite a while."

"Rom?" Garak asked in astonishment. "You mean… Quark's brother? The Ferengi?"

"That's the one!"

As Bashir laughed grimly, Garak couldn't help noticing that Bashir's hand was still on his shoulder. For just a moment, he felt optimistic that maybe, just maybe, their relationship would start to develop positively for once, drawing closer rather than slowly drifting apart. If this latest wedge between them had been removed, who was to say? He smiled at Bashir, and it wasn't a mask. It was good to be home.


	4. A Most Surprising Affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter encompasses episodes 5x10 through 5x12, and briefly refers to elements from A Stitch in Time. Probably the chapter which stretches the interpretation of canon the most, but we thought we should have a little fun, given the circumstances.
> 
> Please review! And enjoy :D

Garak fired two shots in quick succession—his fellow Cardassians crumpled onto the sand. He rushed to Bashir’s side. The doctor rubbed his own throat, where moments before a knife had been pressing. The Cardassian sun was hot enough to feel wonderful to Garak, but Bashir was sweating profusely and panting as Garak helped him stand.  
  
“Good shot,” Bashir gasped. “Thank you.”  
  
The Chief Archon approached with his small squad of bodyguards. “I owe you my life, Nestor. There was no doubt of their guilt before, but especially now, after they tried to kill you, their sole advocate! However—” he turned to Garak. “Now we may never know which crimes were committed by each.”  
  
“With the _greatest_ respect, Chief Archon,” Garak said in humble tones spoiled by the triumphant look on his face. “I believe that declaration to be a bit premature.” At the Archon’s questioning look, he raised a finger in a contemplative gesture. “You see, Gul Dumek used _this_ knife to threaten the Nestor—” Garak picked up the weapon from the dead Gul’s hand. “A knife bearing the insignia of the late Legate Marell, a knife he could only have obtained from his companion here—not by killing the Legate himself, oh no, he would never have been permitted to claim such a prize from the body of his superior’s adversary. He could only have stolen it from Gul Kren, no doubt out of bitterness about the political decision Kren made recently which proved such a… disadvantage to Dumek’s family. I’m sure he meant to use it to dispatch Kren and claim his revenge. Therefore, Dumek was the one who stole the key ingredient for the poison, but Kren was the one who carried out the assassination itself.”  
  
“I think I’m going to pass out,” Bashir panted near Garak’s ear, bent over with his hands on his knees. “I need water.”  
  
Garak immediately turned away from the very impressed Chief Archon. “Computer, end program.”  
  
Cardassia vanished, leaving only the blank grid of the holosuite. The air began to cool rapidly.  
  
“It’s a good thing there are plenty of beverages just downstairs,” Garak said, putting his hands on the doctor’s shoulders to lead him out. “I really do apologize; I’m afraid I was a bit caught up in the drama.”  
  
“No, it’s alright,” Bashir laughed breathlessly, walking more steadily now that the oppressive sun was gone. “I’m glad you were enjoying yourself, I just don’t understand exactly how you can be so sure they _both_ deserved execution.”  
  
“Well I can explain it again if you like!”  
  
“I’ll just take your word for it this time,” Bashir grinned. “Quark! I want some ice-cold… juice!”  
  
“Juice?” Quark looked a little disappointed. “What kind of juice?”  
  
“Surprise me! Just make sure it’s refreshing.”  
  
Quark started to walk away, a grin creeping over his face, when Bashir suddenly cried out, “Oh! And I’d prefer it be made out of fruit, not snails!”  
  
“You sure you don’t want a nice ice-cold root beer?” Quark asked sarcastically.  
  
“No, just get me some kava juice—and I don’t mind if it’s replicated.”  
  
“Anything for you, Garak?” Quark asked.  
  
“Red leaf tea would be perfect, thank you.” He was still feeling quite exhilarated by the mystery he’d just unraveled. He sat down next to Bashir. “I appreciate you putting up with such a grueling program, Doctor. Next time, we can try that Sherlock Holmes program again. I won’t even complain about the incessant and _miserably_ cold English fog.”  
  
“You know, we could just adjust the environmental settings for these programs.”  
  
“But that takes a bit away from the spirit of things, don’t you think? Besides, I happen to love the heat of Cardassia, and last time we were wandering around London, you said you _enjoyed_ the rain.”  
  
“Your drinks, _gentlemen_ ,” Quark said, eyeing them both with an odd look of gratification before offering a napkin to Bashir to mop his sweat. “You two must have been enjoying yourselves up there.”  
  
“Oh, we were!” Garak said happily, sipping his steaming tea and enjoying the way it prolonged the moment before he would inevitably be cold again.  
  
“ _Very_ enjoyable,” Bashir said, sighing in relief after guzzling half his kava juice.  
  
“I’m happy to help,” Quark smirked. “Whatever floats your ship.” He looked between them for a moment before wandering off.  
  
“Feeling better?” Garak asked, with some concern, once Bashir had polished off his juice.  
  
“Yes. Don’t worry about it,” Bashir said, patting Garak’s shoulder.  
  
“Perhaps we _should_ turn the heat down next time,” Garak offered.  
  
“Maybe, but it’s nothing to worry about for now.”  
  
Garak sighed. “I suppose it’s nearly time for you to return to the infirmary.”  
  
“Unfortunately, yes. But I’m still planning on joining you and Ziyal for lunch tomorrow if it’s no trouble.”  
  
“Not at all, Doctor!” Garak beamed. “I would be delighted!”  
  
Bashir smiled at him and patted his shoulder yet again before standing up to leave. “I’ll see you later then,” he said softly, his head close to Garak’s.  
  
Garak nodded once, and watched the doctor leave the bar. The last week had been full of pleasant surprises. Bashir seemed determined to make things up to Garak, and they were spending more time together than Garak had ever expected. They’d had lunch together four times since Garak had woken up in the infirmary, and had dinner in Bashir’s quarters twice. The last two days, they had spent every free hour Bashir had designing and playing with their two new holosuite programs. For the first time in years, Garak was beginning to feel happy more often than not.  
  
It was a little unsettling.  
  
“So… what’s this I hear about needing to turn down the heat in the holosuite?” Quark said in a suggestive voice.  
  
Garak just smiled mysteriously at the bartender and paid him for the tea. He hadn’t realized right away how their conversation could be misconstrued. Well, let people think what they wanted; the important thing to Garak was that they were spending time together. However, a creeping feeling in the back of his consciousness told him that he shouldn’t let himself get used to this. It wouldn’t last, this new state of things; such was the nature of their relationship. He shook his head as he entered his quarters. Well, there was no reason not to enjoy it while it lasted.

...

A little over a week later, when Garak nearly caught a cold after spending a particularly drizzly day in the Sherlock Holmes program, Bashir decided they should take a break from the holosuites. Then the doctor got caught up in some medical work for a few days.  
  
Garak was eating breakfast with Ziyal when Bashir unexpectedly showed up.  
  
“Well this is a surprise!” Garak exclaimed when Bashir took his place at their table as if he’d been there all along. “I thought you were busy?”  
  
“I am, but I thought I’d stop and say hello. Good morning, Ziyal.” Bashir nodded politely to Ziyal, who smiled back with a gracious “good morning, Doctor Bashir.”  
  
“Well,” said Garak, recovering quickly. “Ziyal and I were just discussing Bajor’s recent decision to decline joining the Federation.”  
  
“Yes, there’s been a lot going on, hasn’t there?” Bashir said, smiling secretively. “I don’t suppose either of you have heard of the lost city of B’hala?”  
  
“I can’t say that I have,” Garak said, even though he had in fact heard an interesting piece of news recently about an ancient Bajoran painting the Cardassians had returned to Bajor.  
  
“Captain Sisko was lucky enough to get a look at a twenty-thousand-year-old painting of it, and actually, he ended up decoding the coordinates from a spire in the painting and found the city buried underground.”  
  
“Remarkable!” Garak leaned forward in his seat. “So that’s what all those Bajorans at Quark’s were so excited about!”  
  
“Twenty thousand years old?” Ziyal stared in fascination. “I wish I could get a chance to see it.”  
  
“Perhaps you will,” said Bashir. “I’m sure they’ll be keeping the painting in one of their finest museums. Perhaps they’ll even build a new one in the ruins of the original city. Luckily, their emissary survived the experience of discovering it, but it was a close call.”  
  
“What do you mean?” asked Garak.  
  
“Captain Sisko was only able to find B’hala because of visions he was having as a result of neural shock—he had an accident in the holosuite and I eventually had to operate. Unfortunately, now that the operation is complete, he won’t be having any more visions.”  
  
“That’s unfortunate,” said Ziyal. “Maybe if the visions had continued, the Prophets would have revealed a way to end the war peacefully.”  
  
Garak put a hand over hers in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “Don’t worry, my dear. At least the Bajorans still _have_ their emissary.” It was still a bit odd to Garak, hearing Ziyal talk of her religious beliefs in Bajoran prophets, when most of the time he thought of her as simply a fellow Cardassian. How easy it was to forget differences, indeed. He glanced at Bashir, who was watching him and Ziyal with a funny little smile. Garak slowly let go of Ziyal’s hand.  
  
“What do you know about the Prophets, Ziyal?” Bashir asked quietly.  
  
She looked a little startled. “Well, I’ve only just started learning. Kira’s been taking me to the Bajoran shrine here on the station but it’s all still new to me.”  
  
“But surely something must have attracted you to going in the first place.”  
  
“Well…” Ziyal paused in thought. “I suppose… I like knowing that there are beings out there who protect the innocent, and that everything happens for a reason. Kira told me that she believes the Prophets protected me while I was separated from my father, and maybe even reunited me with him… and that if I let them guide my life, maybe someday I’ll make a difference. Maybe someday, I can help Bajorans and Cardassians understand each other better. I’d like to believe that.”  
  
“I’ve no doubt you can make a difference,” Bashir said kindly. “But what do the Bajorans say the Prophets _are?_ If they are some sort of powerful alien race, why do they favor Bajor in particular?”  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t know very much,” Ziyal said sheepishly.  
  
“Oh, it’s alright, I’m just curious,” Bashir smiled. “What about you, Garak?”  
  
“Me?” Garak said. “I have little interest in Bajoran spirituality.”  
  
“But what’s your perspective on the Prophets, as a Cardassian?”  
  
Garak glanced at Ziyal, hoping she wouldn’t be too put off by his response. “Well as far as I _know_ , most Cardassians see the wormhole as the spatial phenomena it is. The aliens inhabiting it are certainly mysterious, but they are no more _gods_ in our eyes than any other life-form might be. However,” he added, with a brief smile at Ziyal, “I’m sure there’s a great deal that we could learn about them, if we weren’t so caught up in… other affairs.”  
  
“I see,” said Bashir. “Well, I can’t stay long, actually, I promised Miles I’d take another look at Kira to make sure everything’s going better than perfect before the baby arrives.” He got to his feet with a longsuffering look. “I’ll see you at dinner tomorrow night, Garak?”  
  
Garak hadn’t heard of any plans for dinner until just now, but he immediately agreed. “Shall I bring anything?”  
  
“If you like, but I intend to serve at least one dish of the best Cardassian cuisine in the replicator’s memory banks, so don’t think too hard.”  
  
And before Garak could ask what occasion had prompted such an invitation, or whether anyone else would be coming, Bashir had strolled off with a roguish grin and Ziyal was looking at him curiously.  
  
“Well… where were we?” Garak asked.

...

When Garak stepped into Bashir’s quarters, it became instantly apparent that this was to be a private dinner.  
  
“I hope you’re hungry,” Bashir said merrily. “Unfortunately, I’ve been taking too many samples of the dishes I was replicating, so I probably won’t be able to manage more than a plateful.”  
  
“Well in that case, I hope you’ll save some room for this.” Garak held out the small box he’d brought along, and Bashir took it with a grin.  
  
“What’s this?” He asked, opening the lid, then looked up at Garak questioningly.  
  
“Well, they’re supposed to be brownies, unless the replicators are malfunctioning. My sources tell me that among humans, they’re a very popular dessert,” Garak said with unnecessary mystique.  
  
“Oh!” Bashir said, his face lighting up. “I haven’t had brownies in ages!”  
  
“I hope that isn’t because they’re your least favorite dessert.”  
  
“No, no, not at all!” Bashir’s grin was huge, and it took a moment before he seemed to come to himself and put the box down on the table. “Well, shall we sit down?”  
  
They moved to the table. Garak looked over the food laid out in front of him. “Is that Tojal? Well, we certainly had better get eating—it’s no good when it’s not fresh.”  
  
“Agreed.”  
  
For a few minutes they were unusually quiet, eating their Tojal. After a moment Garak paused and watched the doctor carefully.  
  
“This was quite thoughtful of you, Doctor. I’m… still not exactly sure what the occasion must be, but the Tojal _is_ quite good.”  
  
Bashir set down his utensil. “Do I need a reason to invite a good friend to dinner?”  
  
“I suppose not,” Garak said pleasantly, taking a moment to dish up a bit of fruit salad for himself. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”  
  
“And what’s that?” Bashir asked, folding his hands and resting his chin on them.  
  
“You’ve had some experience with young women. How would you suggest I go about making it clear to Ziyal that friendship is all I’m interested in?”  
  
“Are her hints getting more blatant?” Bashir smiled into his hands.  
  
“Well, I wouldn’t say that—it’s more a matter of realizing that no matter how many times I try to gently _insist_ that she can’t possibly want such a relationship with me, she remains quite persistent. She’s convinced I’m about as perfect a man as ever breathed—except perhaps her father, I suppose.” Garak took a sip of spring wine, his eyebrows raised in an uneasy look.  
  
Bashir laughed, shaking his head at the ceiling. “I dunno, Garak. You may have to force the issue.”  
  
“And how would you suggest I do that, Doctor?”  
  
“Well… maybe you need to prove you’re not interested by… I dunno. Maybe you could try dating someone you _are_ actually attracted to.”  
  
“A much preferable alternative to someone I _don’t_ find attractive, I’m sure, but I’m, ah… not sure that’s a good idea,” Garak said, clearing his throat and helping himself to more fruit salad. “In fact, I’m not sure I can say I’ve ever actually _dated_ anyone.”  
  
“Oh, come on,” Bashir coaxed him. “There must be at least one person on this station you find irresistible?”  
  
“Well, I suppose I… could come up with at least _one_.” Garak trained his concentration on a particularly slippery berry which was eluding his fork.  
  
“So, why don’t you approach her?”  
  
“Doctor, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not the most popular person living on this station. Just by virtue of being Cardassian, I’m faced with very unlikely odds that _anyone_ would find me particularly desirable in that regard. Besides… I live for my work. Pursuing a romance seems a bit irresponsible for someone like me, don’t you think?”  
  
“Oh yes,” Bashir said. “The unpredictable and dangerous life of a tailor.”  
  
“Oh you’d be surprised how often I receive death threats from my customers, not to mention the wounds I’ve sustained from faulty sewing equipment!”  
  
Garak ate the last of his Tojal and set his utensil aside.  
  
“Well,” said Bashir. “Shall we break into the brownies?”  
  
Several minutes later, Bashir excused himself for a moment—probably headed to the bathroom—and Garak found himself alone, meditating on the way Bashir had been looking at him over the table. Was he just imagining things? Up until recently, he’d assumed that Bashir knew, on some subconscious level at least, of his attraction to him, but they’d never discussed it before. Garak didn’t want to start now, but if Bashir did know, it was a bit cruel of him to tease like this.  
  
Bashir came back and broke into his reverie. “You know, I’ve been thinking… have I ever actually asked you your opinion on the occupation of Bajor?”  
  
“Well we have discussed various aspects of the occupation,” Garak said, a bit taken aback by the out-of-the-blue question.  
  
Bashir sat down beside him on the sofa. “Do you think the Cardassians really believed they were imposing order on a chaotic world—and that they were doing the Bajorans a favor?”  
  
“If you’re asking me to generalize, Doctor, I’m afraid I can’t. For every Gul or Legate who had a vision of a new Bajor in harmony with Cardassia, there was no doubt a Gul Dukat who had lost sight of any higher cause in the pursuit of fame and pleasure.” Garak’s voice got a little sour at the mention of Dukat’s name, as always. He sighed. “And for both, I’m afraid the worth of Bajoran lives only lessened as the years went on.”  
  
“Some Cardassians say that if it weren’t for the resistance, the occupation would have been peaceful and would have benefited both worlds. If that had happened, do you think the occupation would have been justified?”  
  
“Would there have been anything that needed to be justified?” Garak asked.  
  
“Well, the Bajorans could still say you had no right to impose your idea of order on their culture. They certainly insisted on that, even after engaging in terrorist action. I can see how that would be seen as a bit ironic—insisting they don’t need help establishing order, while creating chaos all around them.”  
  
Garak was silent for a moment. Bashir was no stranger to playing devil’s advocate in their discussions, but this was something he had never approached before. “I assume you aren’t really implying that the Bajoran resistance was futile. After all, Bajor is free and independent now because of those terrorist actions.”  
  
“Oh, not at all… they certainly got what they wanted.” Bashir leaned into the couch, slinging his arms over the back. “But I suppose I’m just exploring the possibility that the Cardassian occupation could have been a good thing if the Bajorans hadn’t resisted violently.”  
  
“Well, I wouldn’t express that where any Bajorans can hear you,” Garak said in a low tone. “Or Federation officers for that matter.”  
  
“I never said it was my opinion, Garak,” Bashir smirked. “I’m just trying to examine the possibilities from a dispassionate historical perspective.”  
  
“I never said it was mine, either. But yes… a dispassionate historical perspective. Well, you’re doing a better job of it than the people at that conference I went to on Bajor, that’s for certain,” Garak lifted his almost-empty glass of spring wine to Bashir, draining the last from the bottom. “I’ve always thought you were unusually open-minded for someone from the Federation.”  
  
Bashir looked gratified. “Well! I guess I’ll take that as a compliment!”  
  
As Garak sat back against the couch, he became suddenly aware that he had leaned back into Bashir’s arm, and the doctor’s hand was resting on his shoulder again. He glanced sideways at the doctor, who was looking at the opposite wall, then looked away, trying to relax.  
  
A few seconds ticked by in silence, and Garak cleared his throat.  
  
“Doctor, I’m afraid my knowledge of human culture is still lacking in certain areas.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yes. How much physical contact do friends normally engage in?”  
  
Bashir turned toward Garak and began to withdraw his arm. “I’m sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable? I suppose Cardassians aren’t particularly touchy-feely people.”  
  
“Oh no, you haven’t made me feel uncomfortable,” Garak said lightly, and Bashir put his hand back where it was. “I simply wanted to make sure I wasn’t missing some sort of cue.” He found himself rubbing his thumbs against the wineglass. More fidgeting. He stopped.  
  
Bashir was silent for a moment, then slowly withdrew his arm again. “I guess I didn’t think about it. Miles puts his arm around my shoulders all the time, we clap each other on the back, that sort of thing.” He paused, momentarily subdued. “I suppose I thought… well, since you’re my friend as well, it’s not strange to act the same with you.”  
  
Garak stared at Bashir, and after a moment allowed a small smile to show. “Well, in that case… no harm done.”

...

Garak inspected the Favinit plant Mrs. O’Brien had handed him. Its lavender star-shaped flowers were crisp and healthy.  
  
“It’s lovely,” he said, nodding his approval. “I appreciate you taking the time to order it for me.”  
  
“Oh don’t mention it,” she said, waving a hand. “I had no idea you used to be a gardener. Do you have a favorite plant?”  
  
“Mm,” Garak raised his eyebrows at the plant, turning it to get a view of it all the way around. “I used to grow Edosian Orchids—quite a challenge in Cardassia’s climate.”  
  
“Oh wow, I didn’t even know it was possible to grow orchids on Cardassia. You must have been some gardener!”  
  
“You’re very kind. Congratulations again on the birth of your child.”  
  
The plant was for Bashir, but as far as Mrs. O’Brien knew, Garak just wanted something to brighten up his quarters. Him and Bashir were meeting later that night—another dinner. It had been about ten days since their last one.  
  
Before he knew it, the time had arrived. He took the plant off the table in his shop where he’d been sneaking glances at it all day, and headed to Bashir’s quarters.  
  
He spent a long, anxious few seconds waiting after ringing the door chime, but then the doctor appeared, and his face lit up with surprise when he saw Garak holding his gift.  
  
“Is that for me?” he asked.  
  
“No, I’m just bringing it along to keep me company.”  
  
Bashir grinned. “Very funny, Garak.” He reached for the plant. “Well, I hope I can keep it alive—I don’t know if Keiko’s forgiven me yet for killing her bonsai trees. What is it?”  
  
“It’s a Favinit plant. They originated on Vulcan, so they’re quite hardy—hopefully, that means it will be less likely to die.”  
  
“I’ll try my best, then. I have to say though, I’m a little surprised—is there a specific reason you’re giving this to me?”  
  
“A few, actually.” Garak took a few steps further into Bashir’s quarters while Bashir found a spot for the gift. He felt distinctly aware of his own cautious posture and told himself to relax, but it was difficult.  
  
Bashir turned to give Garak his full attention once a few seconds of expectant silence had passed. “Alright, what are they?”  
  
“Well, first of all,” Garak began, forcing himself to look Bashir in the eye, “I wanted to give you something to thank you for being such an excellent friend and conversation partner.”  
  
“Ah, you didn’t have to do that. I enjoy our conversations too—very few people actually _like_ hearing me talk for an hour straight.” Bashir had that self-conscious smile on his face.  
  
Garak only paused for a moment, aware that he was being unusually serious. “I also wanted to thank you for giving me a second chance… after what I tried to do.”  
  
Bashir blinked at him for a moment and then gave a tiny shrug. “Well… who am I to let political differences get in the way of our friendship?”  
  
This last one wasn’t going to get any easier.  
  
“Now come on, sit down. I hope you like hasperat.”  
  
“Ah-not yet, Doctor, I’m… not finished.”  
  
Bashir turned around in the middle of pulling out a chair for Garak. He gave Garak a long, thoughtful look. “Alright, I’m listening.”  
  
Garak drew a slow breath, thinking. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, and if you aren’t, I hope you’ll forgive me for jumping to conclusions.” Already, his eyes were beginning to wander uncomfortably all around the room. “You see, I… have always thought you were a particularly attractive person, but I could see your interests were… elsewhere.”  
  
It was ironic, how his heart was beating faster, as if his life were in danger. But there was nothing to be afraid of, of course. He took a quick glance at Bashir’s face—it was impassive, listening, perhaps even curious, and so Garak went on.  
  
“It’s been five years since I first approached you at the replemat, and from all I’ve observed during that time, you have no interest in me as anything other than what we’ve always been—conversation partners, certainly, and perhaps even friends….”  
  
“Are you saying you do want to be in a relationship with me?” Bashir’s brow had furrowed and he was looking at Garak intently.  
  
“Don’t misunderstand me, Doctor, I’m proposing nothing of the sort!” Garak said, looking very amused. “It’s just that lately, _you_ seem to be much more comfortable with moving toward the possibility of something like that, and I want to stop tiptoeing around the issue and find out what your intentions are.”  
  
“I thought you enjoyed a little mystery,” Bashir smirked.  
  
“Oh. I see,” Garak said softly, pulling his head back dramatically. “Is this _revenge?_ ”  
  
“Revenge?” Confusion wiped the smirk off Bashir’s face in an instant. “What do you mean?”  
  
“You’re aware of my—a-attraction to you….” It was so strange to say it out loud. “And you’re using it to manipulate me.” Garak’s eyes widened. “Perhaps I’ve taught you too well!”  
  
“Wait—Garak, I’m sorry.” Bashir was suddenly floundering. “This isn’t _revenge!_ Why would I have any reason to manipulate you? I like you!”  
  
Garak looked at him narrowly.  
  
“Look,” Bashir said, stepping closer to Garak. Garak stood his ground, stiffly, and allowed him to approach. When Bashir spoke, it was in that peculiarly soft tone. “Garak. After five years… I suppose I’ve had plenty of time to become aware of your feelings. Now I may not understand them, but I do value our relationship. Maybe….”  
  
“Yes?” Garak prompted curiously.  
  
“Maybe,” Bashir said, taking a deep breath and looking up at Garak. “Maybe I could try giving it a chance, if that’s what you’d like.”  
  
“Giving _what_ a chance?” Garak asked cautiously.  
  
“Well, this is awkward, isn’t it?” Bashir blew out a sigh and grinned nervously, turning away and scratching his head before glancing back. “I guess I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. After all, you do lead a _dangerous_ life—perhaps, like all good spies, you have no serious interest in a lasting romance… at least not with me.”  
  
“ _Very_ clever, Doctor.” Garak began to laugh. “You really are getting to be quite formidable. For a moment there, I _almost_ believed you were serious!”  
  
“Oh, I _was_ being serious,” Bashir said, folding his arms. “But if you’re not interested, I guess there’s nothing more to discuss.”  
  
Garak stared, waiting… waiting for Bashir to give some indication he was joking. But he could detect nothing in Bashir’s eyes, which looked particularly large and absorbing at the moment.  
  
“Forgive me if I find this a little startling, Doctor,” Garak said. “But you have, to my knowledge, never shown this kind of interest in me before.”  
  
“Well, I suppose it’s never too late to try something new. It may not work out, but I don’t see any harm in exploring the possibility.”  
  
“This is quite unexpected,” Garak said, baffled. “And a little hard to believe. You’re actually suggesting we engage in some sort of… romance?”  
  
“Well….” Bashir looked at him openly. “If it would make you happy. I am very fond of you, Garak. Is it so unnatural that I’d be willing to try exploring _other_ possible aspects of our relationship, especially if I knew it would make your life a little more… full?”  
  
“I suppose not,” Garak said, but the idea was still foreign to his mind. He felt undoubtedly touched at the open expression of verbal affection, but he had never expected something like this.  
  
“If there’s anything I’ve learned in the last year,” Bashir said quietly, “it’s that your happiness _is_ important to me. And if all it takes to make you really happy is something like this, then _I’m_ happy to give it a try. Now, can we have dinner?” Bashir held out a hand.  
  
Slowly, Garak lifted his own hand and let it rest in the doctor’s gentle grip. Before he knew what was happening, Bashir had lifted it to his lips and briefly kissed Garak’s fingers.  
  
As he was led numbly to the table, Garak felt hyper aware of one very startling fact. Despite the undeniable truth that he found Bashir more attractive than ever, his instincts were not telling him to take the doctor’s offer. If anything, they were warning him, but against what, he couldn’t say.

...

He told the doctor he would think about it.  
  
Think about it! Most people would be jumping at the chance to be with the handsome young doctor, but embarking on any sort of passionate romantic saga with Bashir was a fantasy Garak had never seriously considered as more than just that: a fantasy. In fact, he hadn’t allowed the thought to really occur to him at all. Oh, he had always found the doctor attractive, but if he wasn’t mistaken, their friendship had been a bit of a surprise to them both. Their boundaries had been reset during the incident with the wire, but they had been re-establishing a certain acceptable distance ever since.  
  
They had separate loyalties, separate agendas, and although Garak admitted Bashir’s companionship was currently essential to his happiness, the thought of beginning such an affair was disorienting at best, terrifying at worst. Garak had little experience with committed relationships, but what he had experienced was tainted strongly by the disastrous consequences of his last and only attempt. Life had never allowed him much chance to be openly involved with someone else. But this opportunity was being dropped in his lap, and though he could see no immediate danger, it was hard to overcome his conditioned cautiousness. He wasn’t even sure he should try.  
  
The rest of the dinner hadn’t been too unbearably awkward. Bashir talked about the O’Briens and their new baby, and how Major Kira had reluctantly moved back into her own quarters. They discussed the infant Changeling that Odo had tried to save, and debated whether the Founders’ “no Changeling has ever harmed another” law was hypocritical in light of the way they had sent their own helpless infants into hostile space without any protection. By the end of it, Garak had relaxed a little.  
  
For the next few days, he could barely concentrate at work. Then, at breakfast with Ziyal one day, she caught him staring as Bashir walked by.  
  
“Garak? Did you hear what I said?”  
  
“Hm? Oh, I’m sorry, my dear. I’m feeling unusually distracted today.”  
  
“I can tell,” she said. “You’re not sick, are you? Or having those headaches again?”  
  
“Oh no, nothing like that.” Garak hesitated, sensing the opportunity he’d been waiting for. “I wonder if you could give me some advice, Ziyal.”  
  
She looked a bit surprised. “Well—I don’t know, but I’ll do whatever I can to help. What is it?”  
  
Garak lowered his voice to a half-whisper, glancing around as if afraid of being overheard. “It’s Doctor Bashir. He’s been acting… unusual, lately.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“He’s been inviting me to his quarters for private dinners, sometimes more than once a week, and _last_ time I was there,” Garak slowed his voice dramatically, “he kissed my hand.”  
  
Ziyal stared at him. “I… well… are you sure he’s himself?”  
  
“He _seems_ perfectly healthy, and otherwise normal in every way!”  
  
“Perhaps you should talk to Captain Sisko,” said Ziyal.  
  
“Oh, I think that would be a bit of an overreaction,” Garak said, still in an undertone. He looked around him again and then met Ziyal’s eyes. “There’s something I need to tell you… but you have to swear to me not to tell anyone. Not even Major Kira.”  
  
Ziyal nodded. “Of course.”  
  
He took her hand gently. “Doctor Bashir is a very important person to me, Ziyal,” he whispered. “When I was exiled here, on the station, I… never thought I would have a real friend again, much less someone I could trust with some of my innermost weaknesses.” He surprised himself with the sadness in his own voice. “When I met Doctor Bashir, I was _instantly_ attracted to him—but I never expected to get so close to him as I have. He has been the only person here, until you came along, that showed me real compassion.”  
  
He could see the sadness creeping into Ziyal’s face, but he wasn’t sure if it was because she knew where this was going, or because she was empathizing with his loneliness.  
  
“I have always been more than happy to remain his friend, especially since so often, even our lunches together seemed so easily jeopardized. I knew he wasn’t interested in reciprocating any advances I might have made. Besides, I told myself…” Garak’s voice slowed again, becoming agitated. “It was best not to get _too attached_. I still _wanted_ to go back to Cardassia! I was _still waiting_ , biding my time for an opportunity to carve out a place for myself again, and go back to my old life—under Tain.”  
  
“And now?” Ziyal asked in a faint voice.  
  
Garak patted her hand softly, not looking at her face. “Whatever I might have once been, Cardassia has little use for me now. The _entire time_ I was in that cell, I kept thinking to myself—what now? I don’t have any direction, anything solid to work toward. Maybe it’s time I recognize the fact that this is my home—and maybe the _reason_ I’m afraid of accepting the doctor’s… _acceptance_ of my feelings… is that I don’t want to move on and allow myself to admit that I’m never going back.   _This_ is my life now— _here_ , this station, these… people that I know, the very, very few who actually enjoy my company!”  
  
Ziyal was silent. Garak listened to the footsteps of people passing the replemat, barely processing the sounds of their conversations.  
  
After a long moment, Ziyal withdrew her hand from under Garak’s. He looked up; she seemed surprisingly calm.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Garak said softly. “I know what it is to be alone, and I don’t want to stop seeing you. I just can’t seem to decide what to do.”  
  
“If you really love Doctor Bashir, you should be with him,” Ziyal said simply, studying her own hands on the table.  
  
“You deserve a much better man than I can ever be,” Garak said quietly, smiling sadly at her. “But I’m still not sure why Doctor Bashir would suddenly be willing to have that kind of relationship with me, when all this time he has clearly not been interested!”  
  
Ziyal began to blink at the table, and then forced a smile at him. “I don’t know, but… if the same thing happened to me, I wouldn’t question it. It would be an answer to my prayers.”  
  
Garak could only sit there as she rose suddenly from the table, murmuring something about how she had to go. He gave a deep and heavy sigh. Far from becoming clear, the situation seemed more muddled than ever.


	5. Identification Code

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter encompasses episodes 5x12 through 5x14, with some dialogue taken directly from 5x14 ("In Purgatory's Shadow"). Sorry that so much of it is from the actual episode-it kind of had to happen that way.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, please remember to review!

“How much further?” Bashir groaned as they scrambled up the side of another dune.  
  
“We have to go around to the other side of the lake,” Garak called, hurrying back to Bashir’s side as he sat down, panting. “If we approach it directly, you can bet we’ll be surrounded by much more formidable enemies than those glinns we just met.”  
  
“I thought you turned down the environmental temperature on this program!”  
  
“I did. It’s _relatively_ cool, isn’t it?”  
  
“Well, I’m tired! Can we sit down in some shade for a minute?”  
  
Garak took Bashir’s hands and pulled him to his feet, leading him over to a space below a rocky outcropping. They sat down next to each other and Garak handed Bashir a water bottle.  
  
“Ah…” Bashir blew out a breath, closing his eyes and leaning back against the rock. “Let’s just take a break… I didn’t realize I’d be exercising this much.”  
  
They sat in silence for a moment, Garak keeping his ears open for any approaching footsteps. Lately, he had been allowing himself to be a little more receptive to Bashir’s subtle advances—testing the waters, so to speak.  
  
“You know,” Bashir said, still panting slightly. “There’s something I don’t understand.”  
  
“And what’s that, Doctor?”  
  
“When all of Kira’s old friends from the resistance were being killed by that Cardassian, and she was trying to figure out who was doing it, why didn’t anyone think to ask you to help her?”  
  
“I’m not usually the first person who comes to mind when the Bajorans or the Federation have a problem they need to solve,” Garak said. “Unless, of course, that problem happens to be a dress that’s too wide in the waist… or a uniform that needs to be replaced.”  
  
“Well, why didn’t you offer to help? You and Odo could have worked together, maybe saved some of those people’s lives.”  
  
Garak blinked at Bashir, startled by the question. “I saw no reason to involve myself.”  
  
“But you probably had an idea of who it was.”  
  
“I’m not sure what you’re implying, Doctor.”  
  
“I’m not implying anything, Garak.” Bashir rolled his eyes and put a hand on Garak’s arm, leaning closer and speaking softer. “I’m just curious. I mean, if you still have contact with people in the Cardassian government, why not use that to help prevent things like this?”  
  
“If I used what little influence I have with them every time some personal war sprang up between a Bajoran and a Cardassian, I’m not sure I’d have any contacts left before too long.”  
  
“And why’s that?”  
  
“Doctor, as always, I’m afraid you overestimate my importance.”  
  
“Oh come on, Garak,” Bashir put an arm around Garak’s neck and whispered in his ear. He stiffened, glancing at the Doctor out of the corner of his eye multiple times. “We both know that isn’t true.”  
  
“Doctor,” Garak said in amused exasperation, “if you think you can _charm_ information out of me, you’re quite mistaken. Not that you aren’t charming, but why is it important for you to know about my supposedly vast and comprehensive network of contacts on Cardassia?”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bashir murmured under his breath, resting his forehead against the side of Garak’s. “I just think you ought to trust me a little after all this time.”  
  
“Alright, Doctor,” Garak said patiently, moving back so he could look at Bashir’s face. “That is _quite_ enough of that.”  
  
It was hard to look away from Bashir’s eyes, and that smug little smile he was wearing.  
  
“Okay, fine,” Bashir sighed, sitting back. “I think we need to make a decision. Do you want to really give this a try or not?”  
  
“You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” said Garak.  
  
“Look, Garak. Normally, when people have any sort of lasting, intimate relationship, the assumption _is_ that they’re going to trust each other! Now if you really want to be serious about this, you have to give me some kind of indication that I’m really… I dunno, your _equal_ , not just somebody you like trading banter with over lunch.”  
  
“Let me make sure I understand you correctly,” Garak said, getting up to peek around the corner of the rocks. “You’re saying that the only way I can prove how important you are to me is to tell you _all_ my secrets?”  
  
“Well, maybe not _all_ of them, but some of them would be nice.”  
  
“But if I _told_ you all of my secrets, Doctor, _somebody_ might have to kill you—and what kind of partner would I be if I put you in danger like that?”  
  
Bashir sighed, but looked amused. “Alright, maybe we can try to ease into this… gradually. We can start with our names.”  
  
“Our names?” Garak came back to sit by him. “But Doctor, you already know my name.”  
  
“Yes… Elim,” Bashir nodded to himself as if he’d uncovered a great mystery. “The name _you_ told me belonged to your best friend!”  
  
“And unless I’m much mistaken, your name _is_ Julian Bashir.”  
  
“Yes, but you always call me ‘Doctor’.”  
  
Understanding crept over Garak’s face, slowly, and along with it a sense of reserve. “Would you like me to call you Julian?”  
  
“Well,” Bashir said, shrugging innocently, “it seems only natural.”  
  
“Well then, _Julian_ ,” Garak said, with his usual polite nod and pleasant smile. “I think we had better continue toward the lake now, otherwise we won’t get any further in this program before both of us have to get back to work.”  
  
“Lead the way, _Elim_ ,” Bashir said, letting Garak haul him to his feet.  
  
Garak hadn’t expected to have such mixed feelings about hearing Bashir use his given name. He had a lot to get used to, and even more to decide.

...

The message came while they were having lunch together: Garak, Bashir, and Ziyal. Garak had been careful to continue making time to see Ziyal, wanting to impress on her that she was still an important part of his life. Today, it had paid off—she had insisted on joining him for his lunch with Julian, and seemed to be enjoying herself.  
  
“Garak, Captain Sisko would like to see you.”  
  
He looked up from his tea to see Dax standing there, and sat up straight in surprise.  
  
“Well what could this be all about?” Garak wondered aloud for his audience of two.  
  
“Must be pretty important if the captain’s asking for you,” Julian said.  
  
“It shouldn’t take long,” Dax said. “He wants your help deciphering an encoded Cardassian transmission… from the Gamma Quadrant.”  
  
“From the Gamma Quadrant?” Garak echoed, instantly rising from his seat. He told himself it meant nothing yet. “Well, I’m not sure where the Captain got the idea that I’m an expert in decryption, but I’d be happy to give it a try.”  
  
“We’ll wait here for you,” said Ziyal.  
  
In Sisko’s office, Garak braced himself carefully before sitting down in front of the console. No matter what the screen showed him, he couldn’t risk any dramatic reactions. The screen flicked on when Sisko pushed the button.  
  
He recognized the code right away. With a bland look on his face, even as his mind was racing, he read through the transmission, and instantly began to mentally file away the identification code he found there. Each _Alive_ felt like an unusually strong heart-beat jumping in his chest. He heaved a sigh.  
  
“Well, that’s disappointing.”  
  
“What? What is it?” Sisko asked impatiently.  
  
“This is nothing more than some… five-year-old… planetary survey report,” Garak said disgustedly, gesturing at the screen and slouching back in the seat.  
  
“A planetary survey report? Are you sure?” Sisko gave him an incredulous look.  
  
“I’m afraid so,” Garak said in a dull tone. “Would you like me to read it to you?”  
  
“Why would Cardassians go to so much trouble to encode a planetary survey report?”  
  
“Well, it’s really not all that surprising—Cardassians do have a reputation for being secretive, don’t they?” Garak gave the Captain a thin smile. “No, I’m afraid this is just another example of our usual paranoia. A pity… I was really hoping there’d be something important in this transmission.”

...

It was like waking from a dream. Tain was alive. He had sent that message. It couldn’t have been anyone else; they had designed the code together and no one else was supposed to know it. _Alive. Alive. Alive._ The thought pulsed through his brain, just as it had in the transmission, interspersed between the bits of code his mind was reviewing in preparation for his journey. Everything else he had worried about, everything else that had happened in the last few months fell away.  
  
Garak wanted to act immediately, but there were some loose ends to tie up. The first order of business was to return to the replemat, where Ziyal and Julian were waiting.  
  
“I’m sorry for the interruption,” he said, as he approached. Julian was just saying goodbye to a woman that both he and Ziyal apparently knew.  
  
“Well, how did it go?” Ziyal asked, her usual bright smile back in full force.  
  
Garak sat down at their table. “I’m afraid I disappointed them. I think they were hoping that the message they picked up would contain the key to defeating the Dominion. You should have seen the looks on their faces when I explained to them that it was a _five_ -year-old planetary survey report.”  
  
“A planetary survey report?” Julian muttered in disbelief.  
  
Garak pointed at Julian’s face for Ziyal’s benefit. “That’s the look, exactly.” He smiled slightly, and Ziyal’s dismay dissolved into a charming grin.  
  
Julian looked at Garak with concern. “I would’ve thought you’d be a little disappointed too. After all, it could have been one of the survivors from the Cardassian fleet that was lost in the Gamma Quadrant.”  
  
It was really a pity that Julian couldn’t be congratulated for how perceptive he was.  
  
“Oh, I’d given up hope of ever finding any trace of _them_ , long ago.”  
  
Ziyal was still smiling softly. “Really? I never saw you as the giving up type.”  
  
“There comes a time when one must face reality, my dear. Those people are gone, and are never coming back.”  
  
As Ziyal bowed her head sadly and a grim look spread over Julian’s face, Garak suddenly couldn’t stand to sit there any longer. The bad dream was ending—fate had handed him what could only be his last chance. The opportunity to live his own life again was waiting for him. All he had to do was get to the other side of the wormhole and follow the coordinates.  
  
“Well, my young friends, I’d love to stay here and chat all day, but I have dresses to make, trousers to mend…. It’s a full life, if a trifle banal.” He smiled at Bashir.  ”And do tell Captain Sisko that I’d be _more_ than happy to decode any Cardassian laundry lists that come across his desk.”  
  
He pressed his palm against Ziyal’s before he left, but a parting glance would have to be enough for Julian. They had both agreed that any displays of affection would be kept from the public eye—and even in private, these were still quite limited. It didn’t matter anyway. The entire attempt at a relationship would mean very little in a few days.

...

“Going somewhere?”  
  
Garak was genuinely shocked to find Julian seated in the runabout’s cockpit, pointing a phaser at him.  
  
“I really must remember to stop underestimating you, Doctor. How did you know?”  
  
“You mean that you were lying about the contents of the message?” Julian asked. “You said you had given up on the Cardassian survivors who were lost in the Gamma Quadrant. Well Ziyal was right—you’re not the giving up sort.”  
  
Garak was surprised at how pleased he was that Julian knew how important this was to him, and had anticipated his movements so well. “Very good, Doctor,” he said, setting his travel bag on the ground and taking a seat. “You’ve come a long way from the naïve young man I met five years ago. You’ve become distrustful and suspicious. It suits you.”  
  
“I had a good teacher.”  
  
Garak couldn’t help smiling a bit at that.  
  
“What’d the message really say, Garak?” Julian asked, getting up from his seat.  
  
It only took Garak a moment to decide to tell the truth. “It was a call for help… from Enabran Tain.”  
  
“Tain?” Julian’s eyebrows drew together. “But you said you’d seen his ship destroyed by the dominion.”  
  
“I did. But Tain was head of the Obsidian Order for twenty years; if he can survive that, he can survive anything. I have to find him, Doctor. I owe it to him.”  
  
“You don’t owe Tain anything; he had you exiled from Cardassia!”  
  
“Yes, but aside from that, we were… very close. He was… my mentor.” Garak looked up at Julian, still surprised that he trusted him enough to explain all this. “And I’m not going to turn my back on him.” And just like that, he made a split-second decision. “If it’ll make you feel any better, you can come with me. All you have to do is come up with an excuse why you need the runabout, and we could leave immediately.”  
  
It would be nice to have him along… maybe his loyalty to Cardassia and his fondness for Julian didn’t have to belong to separate lives.  
  
But by looking at Julian’s skeptical smile, he began to doubt it.  
  
“So let me get this straight,” Julian said, moving slowly to sit back down in the cockpit. “You want me to lie to my commanding officer, violate Starfleet regulations, and go with you on a mission into the Gamma Quadrant which will probably get us both killed.”  
  
“I’m ready when you are,” Garak said simply, holding out his last bit of hope.  
  
“In that case, let’s go.”  
  
Garak delightedly turned his chair to start prepping for departure.  
  
“To Captain Sisko’s office,” Julian finished, raising the phaser again.  
  
The elevated thrill he’d felt just a moment ago quickly deflated, bringing him back into the hard resolve of before.  
  
The meeting with Sisko proved just as unpredictable. Shockingly, Sisko agreed to let him go—and for a moment Garak’s hopes of bringing Julian along returned—but then Commander Worf was assigned to accompany him.  
  
Since this was an authorized mission now, the departure time was delayed a few hours.  
  
“I have to get back to the infirmary,” Julian murmured once they were out on the promenade. “You’d better go tell Ziyal what you’re doing.”  
  
“I suppose you’re right.”  
  
“Well….” Julian took Garak by the shoulders and came around to face him so their heads were close together. “Just promise me you won’t get killed.”  
  
Garak took Julian’s hands off his shoulders and held them. “I don’t intend to.”  
  
In a way, Julian’s actions had relieved him more than they had frustrated him. Turning him over to Sisko was exactly the sort of thing Garak would have expected him to do under normal circumstances. In all the confusion of the last few weeks, sometimes he felt like the Julian he knew had been swallowed up all too rapidly by some possible future incarnation.  
  
They parted without saying anything more, and Garak went to go seek out Ziyal.  
  
Some time later, he found her sitting at a table on the upper level of Quark’s.  
  
“You look sad, my dear,” Garak said, taking a seat across from her.  
  
“I thought you were busy at the shop,” she said.  
  
“I’m afraid _that_ was a lie.” Garak folded his hands on the tabletop and spoke gently. “I’m going to the Gamma Quadrant today. I received a distress call from Tain—he’s alive, and I have to find him. I’m sure you understand.”  
  
“The Gamma Quadrant?” she cried, much more dismayed and worried than he’d expected. Oh, how often he underestimated her affection for him. “You can’t go to the Gamma Quadrant.”  
  
“Oh I can,” Garak said, gently but firmly. “And I will. I have to.”  
  
“But if something were to happen to you, I… I don’t know what I’d do.”  
  
Ziyal’s distress was difficult for him to ignore, but he tried to speak lightly. “I’m _sure_ you can find someone else to share your meals with—not that you’d have to. I fully intend to return.”  
  
“It’s not just the meals,” Ziyal said, shaking her head.  
  
“As I know; I’m the only other Cardassian on the station,” Garak said, sipping his drink with regret; he was responsible for a portion of Ziyal’s loneliness now.  
  
“It’s not that either,” Ziyal persisted softly. “You know that. It’s just that… you’re intelligent and cultured...” Her face fell slightly. “And kind.”  
  
Garak sighed softly. Her persistence was truly incredible, and it didn’t help the guilt. “My dear, you’re young… so I realize that you’re a poor judge of character.”  
  
“Why do you always make fun of my feelings for you?” Ziyal cried.  
  
“Perhaps because I find them a bit, ah… misguided?” This conversation was more awkward than he had expected, but it should have been no surprise that she would be emotional about his departure.  
  
“Well if this is what you think, why do you spend so much time with me?” Ziyal demanded.  
  
Garak wondered if it was indeed cruel of him to continue associating with her when she would never get what she wanted from him. But in the end, he knew he was far more selfish not to. He swallowed, taken off guard by the unexpectedly potent rush of memories—all the lonely memories of all the years he’d spent on this station.  
  
“Because I’m exiled,” he said softly. “And alone… and a long way from home, and when I’m with you… it doesn’t feel so bad.”  
  
It was true. He had needed that aspect of companionship from Ziyal, and now, he knew that even once he had rescued Tain, he couldn’t leave her waiting here for him. He owed it to her to come back, as much as he owed it to Tain to go.  
  
“I’m glad I could help,” Ziyal said, subdued. A tiny, quiet moment passed, wherein Garak felt that they understood one another—their reasons, and their loneliness. Amazing… that such different people could feel so alike.  
  
“Ziyal.” Garak’s reserve softened, even as his will hardened. “No matter what happens, no matter how _bleak_   things may look, I promise you I will come back. You have my word.”  
  
Her face lifted slowly, and she reached for his hand. “I believe you.”  
  
“Take your hands _off_ her!”  
  
Dukat appeared in the corner of Garak’s vision, and Garak found himself slammed against the balcony rail by Dukat’s fatherly benevolence.  
  
“Father, no!” Ziyal scolded.  
  
“You touch my daughter again,” Dukat growled softly, “I’ll kill you.”  
  
“Father!” Ziyal rushed over. “Let him go! Please!”  
  
“Go ahead!” Garak taunted softly. “ _Kill_ me! She’ll never forgive you, you know.” He was encouraged by the relatively gentle way Dukat shoved him further backward. If Dukat had really wanted to harm him, he would have tossed him down onto a dabo table, not forced him into a back-bend by the collar of his shirt.  
  
“Gentlemen!” Quark called, scurrying over from downstairs. “Gentlemen, I dunno what’s going on here but I’m sure it’s no excuse to act like a pair of Klingons!”  
  
“I’ll act as I please, Ferengi,” Dukat said, grinding his teeth.  
  
“Then you’ll excuse me while I call security?” said Quark. “I’m sure Odo would get a big thrill out of having you locked up in one of his holding cells.”  
  
“Father,” Ziyal insisted, putting a hand on his arm as if pleading with an unruly child. “ _Please_.”  
  
A doubtful look passed over Dukat’s face. Garak took the opening.  
  
“Public opinion seems to be running against you.”  
  
Dukat jerked him to his feet.  
  
“Ah!” Garak groaned. “You know, I think that actually helped my back!”  
  
“Let’s go, Garak,” Quark said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”  
  
Dukat released him with a jerk of his fists. Garak pretended he wasn’t there and turned to Ziyal.  
  
“A pleasure… as always, my dear.” They touched palms. “You _do_ have a lovely daughter,” he told Dukat, getting in one last shot while Dukat was stewing in his helplessness. “She must take after her mother.”  
  
The look of subdued frustration on Dukat’s face was all the reward he needed.  
  
“I told you, didn’t I?” Quark said as he poured Garak’s drink downstairs. “Dating the daughter of a guy like him? Bad news.”  
  
“We weren’t dating, actually,” Garak said. “I’ve been seeing someone else. We’re just… close friends.”  
  
“Well, that’s a relief,” Quark said, with a suspicious glance at Garak. “Who’s the lucky uh… person?”  
  
Garak smiled vaguely at he took his drink. “I like to keep my private life private. And I think you’ll agree that what just happened is a good indication of why.”  
  
Quark nodded slowly in his “sympathetic” way. “Fair enough.”

...

When Garak opened his eyes, his head was aching. The sight of Jem’Hadar standing over him brought the whole thing back. He and Worf had been flying the runabout, trying to escape a massive swarm of Jem’Hadar ships they’d run into in a nebula. A tractor beam had brought them to a dead stop, and Garak had gotten another chance to practice improvising when Jem’Hadar soldiers beamed aboard. Apparently, they hadn’t taken too kindly to his request for directions to the worm-hole.  
  
The soldiers hauled him to his feet, along with Worf, who also looked like he had just woken up. They had probably been sedated. Suddenly, the peculiar feeling of being dematerialized swept over Garak’s body, and the next thing he saw was the gloomy insides of what looked like some sort of military barracks; a couple of Jem’Hadar stood waiting for them.  
  
Well, maybe this new group would be more receptive.  
  
“Ah! Good! _You_ look like the man in charge! I was just trying to explain to your colleagues here that this is _all_ an unfortunate misunderstanding.”  
  
“Cardassians are all alike,” the Jem’Hadar soldier said in his conditioned monotone. “You talk too much.”  
  
Garak’s groan wheezed out of him as the soldier gripped his throat with iron strength.  
  
“Let him go,” Worf demanded, grabbing the soldier’s arm.  
  
“I give the orders here.” The soldier spoke slowly, sure of himself. “Release me, or die.”  
  
“Worf,” Garak croaked. “Do as he says.”  
  
A moment later, Garak was free of the soldier’s grip and breathing raggedly.  
  
“This is internment camp three seven one. You are here because you are enemies of the Dominion. There is no release. No escape…except death.”  
  
They were shoved roughly down a hallway into a room where they were thoroughly scanned, patted down, and probed for hidden threats as their weapons were confiscated and identities confirmed. They received their assignment to barracks six and on the way there, ended up watching another Klingon whom Worf knew competing with Jem’Hadar in a fighting ring. Inexplicably, the Klingon—named Martok—looked on Garak with recognition in his eyes.  
  
“If you are Worf… then you must be Garak. He said you would come.”  
  
A thrill of anticipation coursed through Garak’s veins before he had even consciously made the unlikely leap of imagination. But he didn’t ask who Martok meant… he merely followed as Martok led them to the barracks, his nerves tingling.  
  
As they entered, Martok pointed out a camp bed with a dark form atop it. “There.”  
  
Garak hurried forward eagerly. Tain lay there, his eyes closed, and Garak knelt by his bed.  
  
“Tain,” he called, noting the discoloration in his mentor’s face. This place had not been kind to him. Garak felt his fingertips go icy as he realized there was a chance Tain might not live even if he could rescue him.  
  
“What is wrong with him?” Worf asked.  
  
“It’s his heart,” Martok said.  
  
“Really?” Garak’s voice quavered with sad mirth. “There are many people who’d say he doesn’t have one.”  
  
“He was convinced that you would come,” Martok said intently.  
  
“He knew I had no choice,” Garak murmured, his voice calm, resigned. He reached forward to shake the figure in front of him. “Tain. Tain, I’m here.”  
  
The muscles in the old Cardassian’s face contracted slightly, and his eyes flickered open; he took a slow, shallow breath. “My message?” His voice was hoarse and soft. “It got through?”  
  
“It did,” Garak said, feeling himself descending into a place of contentment in obedience. Just another day, reporting to his superior—doing his duty and trying to make his parents proud.  
  
“Where are the others?” Tain asked, after sucking in another breath.  
  
As always, failure followed him. Garak couldn’t stifle a split-second, soft laugh. “There are no others. Just commander Worf… and me.”  
  
Tain exhaled in a hiss of disgust. “You allowed yourselves to be taken prisoner? I taught you better than that. Living on that station has dulled your wits.”  
  
“That’s it?” Garak said quietly, sharply, steeling himself. “After I’ve come all this way—after _all_ I’ve been through… that’s all you have to say to me?”  
  
“What do you want me to say?” Tain grumbled.  
  
“I want you to say… _thank_ you, Elim! Your loyalty is _most_ gratifying—I _knew_ I could count on you.”  
  
“But I couldn’t count on you… could I?” Tain breathed. “All you’ve done… is to doom us. Both.”  
  
Garak took a deep, shaky breath, and blew it out, trying to expel the tight pain in his chest with it. For a moment he knelt there, and then—because there was nothing more he could bring himself to say, and because he could not stand the sight of Tain’s eyes full of harsh dismissal—he stood up and stepped away.  
  
Worf and Martok had tried to give him some space—they were standing at the opposite end of the barracks, but they glanced at him and he moved toward them, feeling as if the life had drained out of him. All the energy he’d had at the beginning of this mission was gone, all the focus and drive. Now all he felt was the emptiness of his past, echoed in his future.  
  
“We should not give up hope of escape,” Martok said suddenly, clapping a hand to Garak’s shoulder—he nearly jumped at the sudden contact. “If there was no hope, I would not be alive after two years on this rock.”  
  
“If Tain could get a distress signal to transmit to Deep Space Nine, it is possible for us to do the same,” said Worf.  
  
Garak took a quick breath and tried to focus. “Well, first, we’d have to know how he managed to send the signal in the first place.”  
  
Martok spoke quickly. “Before this asteroid was converted into a prison, the Dominion used to mine ultritium here. There was no dome. Each one of these barracks had its own life support system embedded in the walls.”  
  
“And Tain was able to modify that life support system and create a sub-space transmitter,” Garak said, relieved when his mind began working again.  
  
“Yes,” Martok said. “There’s a crawlspace just behind those panels.” They all turned their heads toward the panels behind Tain’s bed. “He spent hours in there, working, every day, for months on end.”  
  
Garak swallowed. It had been nearly a year since Tain had been captured… and all that time he had been trying to contact him. And he had finally succeeded… only to have Elim, the eternal disappointment, show up with too little, too late.  
  
“Cardassians,” Martok chuckled. “They’re clever people. Especially that one.” He jerked his head toward Tain. “But in just a few days at best… he’ll be dead.”  
  
The empty feeling was all-consuming… a feeling Garak had tried to forget, from that black hole in his memory which surrounded his exile, and all of Tain’s accusations of betrayal. His body felt weak, as if infected by a virus. How to fight this?  
  
“Then it is up to us to be clever,” said Worf. Garak tried to repeat that to himself in his mind, but even the will to escape had seemed to leave him.  
  
The door opened behind them and they turned to see a Romulan woman entering the barracks.  
  
“They’re releasing him from isolation,” she said.  
  
“Good!” Martok whispered.  
  
“Who?” asked Worf.  
  
“A friend,” said Martok.  
  
Outside, a soldier shouted “move!” and shoved someone in a familiar green and black uniform against the door frame.  
  
Garak drew breath, and it was like some small part of him revived, even as the rest was thrown into even deeper confusion. It was Julian Bashir. But this Julian was wearing the old uniform, and had a fair amount of stubble on his jaw. His hair was a bit longer, and it was obvious he had been here for more than a few hours—more than a few days, in fact.  
  
Suddenly, everything made some kind of twisted sense.  
  
He lurched toward the doctor. “Julian!” he cried, and Bashir looked at him in shock and suspicion, his face dark and guarded. “How long have you been here?” Garak asked, unaware that his face was full of awe. He stopped short when Bashir began to back away frantically.  
  
“You’re not Garak,” Bashir said, glancing between him and Worf. “What’s going on—you must be a Changeling!”  
  
“Garak and I were just captured today,” said Worf.  
  
“That’s not Garak,” Bashir insisted. “He never calls me Julian. Which means I can’t trust _you_ are who you say you are either.”  
  
Of course. What a stupid mistake, Garak thought to himself. He wasn’t even sure why he had called the doctor’s first name—it was barely a real habit at this point. But oddly enough, he couldn’t dwell on this for long.  
  
“Why would the Jem’Hadar put a Changeling in a prison barracks?” Worf asked.  
  
“To find out information from the prisoners, of course!” Garak piped up. “Well, we’ll all just have to prove that we really _are_ who we say we are.”  
  
Without further ado, Worf wrenched a bit of metal off of one of the camp beds, and began to sharpen it on another. Garak just stared at Bashir, who stared back at him distrustfully. It was one of the most beautiful and disturbing sights Garak had ever seen.


	6. Too Close For Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter continues to focus on episodes 5x14 and 5x15, with some lines of dialogue taken directly from certain parts. Please be patient with the episode overlap... these are important episodes to our extrapolated plot, so we couldn't figure out a quicker way to get past them. Just think of it as the Special Garak Extended Edition of the episodes!
> 
> Please review, it makes us very excited! Even if it's just a few words, it's nice to know we have readers.

A grim silence descended on them all, each person looking restlessly over their companions, holding in their minds the possibility that one of them might be the enemy. No one spoke while Worf sharpened the makeshift blade. Garak found his eyes wandering back to Bashir’s over and over again.   
  
When Worf was finally satisfied with the sharpness of the metal, he drew it across his hand and let a few drops fall onto the floor. They all watched, the tension palpable in the few seconds of doubt before it became obvious the blood remained blood and not essence-of-Changeling. Martok went next, and handed the “knife” to Garak, who wiped it on the edge of a mattress before cutting his hand also. He then wiped it again and handed it to Bashir, whose eyes became less guarded as he sharpened it one last time against the bed frame. Garak and Martok leaned over him and watched him wipe the blood off his finger.   
  
“B Negative,” Bashir murmured, breaking their silence. “In case you were wondering.”  
  
Garak felt his own face relax, and the need to speak with Bashir returned full force.  
  
“Well it appears we are all who we seem to be,” said Martok.   
  
“If the blood screenings can be trusted,” said Worf.  
  
“It’s all we’ve got,” Bashir said simply.  
  
Garak butted in. “Well what about the others?” He pointed at the inmate on the bed behind him. “Have they been tested?”  
  
“Everyone except that Breen,” said Bashir, glancing at the masked alien. “No blood.”  
  
There was an undertone of shaky weakness in Bashir’s voice, and something about his face seemed more exhausted than before—able to show now that he was with friends. Garak felt angry on the doctor’s behalf, but he kept his usual mannerisms in place.  
  
“When were you brought here?” he asked curiously.   
  
“Over a month ago. I was attending a burn treatment conference on Meezan Four. I went to bed one night… and woke up here.”  
  
Bashir spoke in a hollow almost-whisper that Garak didn’t like.   
  
“The same thing happened to me,” said Martok. “Except I was hunting Sabre Bear on Kang’s Summit. Little did I know that I was being stalked as well.” He turned to Worf. “And now I’m told… the Changeling that replaced me has caused the death of countless Klingons? It is a grave dishonor.” The one-eyed Klingon looked down in shame and disgust.  
  
Worf shook his head slightly and spoke in a firm voice. “You are not to blame.”  
  
Bashir narrowed his eyes as if looking across a great distance. “I can only imagine what my replacement is up to on the station.”  
  
Garak couldn’t bear this for much longer. He wasn’t sure Bashir _could_ imagine what his replacement had been up to.  
  
Worf looked grim—well, more grim than usual. “We must escape and warn Captain Sisko before that Changeling carries out his mission.”  
  
“Yes!” Garak said suddenly. “But first I’d like to have a talk with Doctor Bashir.”  
  
“There is little time,” Worf said, with the same stiff phrasing he’d been using ever since they’d left the station. Then again, Garak reminded himself, that tone was probably his default. “It would be best if we began to think of a plan immediately.”  
  
“Exactly what I was suggesting!” Garak said, all friendliness again. “You two Klingons can get reacquainted, and the good doctor and I can do the same as he shows me around the compound! Besides, I think it would look less suspicious that way.”  
  
“He will need to eat,” the Romulan woman said suddenly from where she stood near the door. She jerked her head toward Bashir.  
  
“She’s right,” Bashir said with dull bitterness, looking up at Garak. “I complained about the rations, so I got even less in isolation.”  
  
“Well then.” Garak managed a small smile and offered his hand to Bashir. When he spoke, it was with unusual gentleness. “Perhaps there’s some place here where we can resume our usual lunchtime discussions, Doctor?”  
  
Bashir took his hand, and Garak hauled him upright, startled at how clammy Bashir’s skin was. He steered the doctor gently out the door with a hand on his back, and glanced over his shoulder as they left. Worf and Martok made no further objection.  
  
“How _long_ have you been in isolation?” Garak asked, leaning close to Bashir’s ear as soon as they were relatively alone.  
  
“About a week,” Bashir croaked. “Listen, Garak… I want to know what’s been going on while I’ve been away.”  
  
“And I’d be happy to tell you anything you want to know on that subject.” Garak kept his tone of voice similar to that of one discussing a favorite hobby. “But first, I’m curious to see what passes for food in a prison run by a species that doesn’t _eat_.”  
  
Bashir didn’t laugh, and Garak’s concern kept him silent as he let his hand remain in place between Julian’s shoulder blades. Julian. Garak felt a little pang of confusion again. The real Julian Bashir was the one he was shadowing now, of course, and he was happy to see him again. Still, it was a bit disorienting.  
  
Jem’Hadar stood guard on either side of what looked like a rudimentary replicator system. Bashir pressed his palm against a screen which lit up briefly before the replicator dispensed a container of mealy liquid. He began to drink it in big gulps as they moved away from the guards, sticking to areas where other prisoners were sparse or absent.   
  
“I do hope it’s filling at least,” Garak offered.  
  
“Not in the slightest.”  
  
Bashir sighed, and the empty look on his face was very close to how Garak had been feeling only minutes ago. In fact, the feeling was still there, stung again by the reminder of what Tain had suffered for the past year, but Garak was all too happy to try and ignore it now that he’d been provided with some distraction.  
  
“Well, I’ll try to fill you in,” Garak began, as Bashir wiped the inside of the container with a finger, trying to pick up every last drop. “I’m just, ah… not sure where to begin.”  
  
“You must have some ideas about what it’s up to, what its plan is. Why did it choose to impersonate _me?_ It could have replaced Sisko or Major Kira or….” Bashir trailed off, looking into Garak’s eyes expectantly.  
  
Garak nodded slowly. “I… do have a few _theories_ ,” he said cautiously, becoming half-aware that he had stopped to stare at Bashir’s worn and haggard face, and Bashir had stopped as well. He glanced away—checking for eavesdroppers was a good excuse. “But they’re only speculation, of course.”  
  
“But what do you think the Changeling plans to _do_ with my identity? Could it want access to Starfleet medical records for some reason?” Bashir set his dirty container in a bin.  
  
“I’m afraid I can’t say, but it did seem apparent that our imposter hoped to gather _some_ sort of valuable information during its stay.” Garak raised both eyebrows and smiled grimly, lowering his voice to an emphatic whisper. “And what _better_ way to learn what’s most worth knowing… than to ask the exiled tailor, who makes information his business?”  
  
“If you _were_ just a tailor, Quark would be a better target than you.” Bashir managed a shadow of a smile. “So what happened?”  
  
Garak pushed softly on Bashir’s back to get him walking again—a small knot of people was headed in their general direction. “I’m afraid the Changeling has been using our relationship as a way to gather information—information about Cardassia, and myself.”  
  
“Cardassia?” Bashir looked puzzled. “I would have thought an agent of the Dominion would be more interested in learning the Federation’s weaknesses.”  
  
“It could very well have been interested in both—after all, I only know what your double was asking me, but it could have been learning all kinds of secrets from your medical databanks or… a game of darts with Chief O’Brien, perhaps?” Garak finally let his hand drop, seeing that Bashir seemed to be walking more steadily now—perhaps the food was helping. “Not that I let the imposter learn very much.”  
  
“I’m sure you weren’t fooled for a minute,” Bashir said, a stronger smile coming on now.  
  
“I’m flattered by your confidence, Doctor, but unfortunately I must admit I _was_ fooled.” At Bashir’s startled look, Garak went on quickly. “Oh, don’t misunderstand—I _knew_ something was off, I had a…sense that something wasn’t right, an unsettling _feeling_ in the back of my mind, but….” Garak shook his head, slightly disgusted at himself. “Nothing he did or said was outside the realm of possibility. I’ve learned you can be quite unpredictable when the mood strikes you.”   
  
“I see,” Bashir grinned, a spark of life coming back into his features, much to Garak’s relief. “Well, I suppose I should be grateful that you’re not the type to trust even your closest allies with important information. Do you have any idea of what the Dominion might be planning for Cardassia?”  
  
“I think, possibly, some sort of infiltration,” Garak said. “But I can’t be sure of much beyond that.”  
  
“Well, I wish I could say I have much hope of us getting out of here,” Bashir sighed heavily. “How did you and Worf end up here anyway?”  
  
“I came to rescue Tain.” Garak voice went hollow and cold. “We received an encoded transmission from him at the station.”  
  
“So he finally got it to work,” Bashir said softly, a note of admiration and awe in his voice. “He’s been working on a subspace transmitter for months. Maybe we _do_ have a chance.”  
  
“Perhaps,” said Garak. “Although, we may have to wait a long time for our rescuers to find their way here. Hopefully, they won’t get caught as easily as we did.”  
  
“Our first priority should be letting Captain Sisko know that there’s a Changeling on the station. Whatever the Dominion is planning could be set to happen any day—we can’t wait until we’re back on the station to stop them.”  
  
Garak didn’t speak. The doctor’s presence felt like a spot of warmth in the vast silent space he found himself lost in. His own bitterness surprised him, overwhelming him suddenly so that he found it hard to think of anything to say. And even though he was relieved to know the truth of their relationship, his footing was still uncertain…he didn’t want to push for a sense of closeness they may not even have.  
  
“So, Garak,” Bashir interrupted. “Why _did_ you call me Julian?”  
  
Garak pulled himself out of his sad contemplations and took a quick breath, trying to put on a look of innocent surprise. “Well, in the interests of trust, I’m afraid the Changeling asked me to begin addressing you by your first name. But I knew you were the real Doctor Bashir the moment I set my eyes on you.”  
  
“So? For a moment, I honestly _was_ convinced that you were an imposter!”  
  
“I suppose I was simply… glad to see you,” Garak said, allowing a small note of sincerity into his voice. “After all, I haven’t really had the pleasure of your company for over a month.”  
  
“I see.” Bashir’s voice went soft and his brow furrowed. “I assume you spoke to Tain after you arrived?”  
  
“Oh yes,” said Garak, with another slow breath.   
  
“You must have been thrilled to find out he was alive.”  
  
“Yes. Yes, I was….” Garak didn’t look at the doctor.  
  
“I suppose this means that if we get out of here, you’ll be going back to Cardassia?”  
  
“Oh, I _very_ much doubt that, Doctor!” He found himself nearly laughing. Suddenly, it was too much to keep to himself—the bitterness had to be let out. He tried to hold back, and his tone became tight and restrained. “In fact, I’m more convinced than ever that my exile was meant to be irreversible. I doubt anything important is going to change in that regard!”  
  
“But you came all this way to rescue him,” Bashir protested. They were circling back into a section of the compound that was scattered with prisoners. “Surely that must count for something.”  
  
“You don’t know Enabran Tain,” Garak said in a sharp undertone, pulling in a hissing breath against the despair. They walked a few more steps in silence, before he burst. “I should never have come here. I should have let that monster die forgotten and alone!”   
  
“Well frankly, I’m glad you came,” Bashir said in a wry, weary voice. “Misery loves company.”  
  
Garak could barely process the friendly sentiment through the resurfacing pain.  
  
“ _All_ my life,” he went on, turning toward Bashir as they walked, subconsciously wanting his anger to be validated. “I’ve done nothing but try to please that man—I’ve… let him mold me… let him turn me into a _mirror image_ of himself, and how did he repay me? With exile!” Garak only paused half a second. “But I forgave him! And here… in the end… I thought that maybe, _just maybe_ — “ Garak felt the firmness in his voice giving out, as Bashir met his eyes—” _he_ could forgive _me_.”  
  
He looked away, afraid of showing too much to the doctor. It had been a long time since such uncontrollable grief had overtaken him. He let out a slow breath, taking a hold of himself.  
  
Bashir looked him in the eye with dull sympathy. “From what I’ve seen of him over the past month, he doesn’t come across as the forgiving type.”  
  
A bitter smile crossed Garak’s face as he shook his head. All his actions from the past year seemed to mock him in his memory, including the way he’d been duped by the Changeling. “I’ve been a fool. Let _this_ be a lesson to you, Doctor,” he said vehemently. “Perhaps the most _valuable_ one I can ever teach you. _Sentiment_ …is the _greatest weakness_ of all.”  
  
As he let out another shaky breath, glancing away once again to regain control of himself, Bashir’s weary gaze remained steady. “If that’s true, it’s a lesson I’d rather not learn.”  
  
Ah, the good doctor was so consistent. Even beaten and starving as he was, he remained ever the idealist. Garak feared for the day when Bashir’s optimistic and trusting nature would lead him to the same end he had suffered. He wanted to shake Bashir, wake him up to the cruel reality of life, but at the same time, he knew that he treasured that aspect of his friend too much to destroy it. He was too sentimental, even now.  
  
A door opened to his left and Garak’s head whipped around to see who approached. It was Martok.  
  
“I thought you might want to know… if you wish to speak to Tain… do it now. Before it’s too late.”  
  
And here I go, Garak thought numbly to himself, as he glanced once at Bashir and found himself walking toward barracks six—walking right back into the same old trap, never letting go of that one last chance, that one last shred of idealistic loyalty.   
  
He paused before entering the barracks, gathering himself, trying to tell himself that he would be hard and unforgiving in these last moments—it was no more than Tain deserved. But suddenly Bashir put a hand on his shoulder, and this time it was the real Bashir, hushed and close beside him.  
  
“Would you like to be alone with him?”  
  
Strange, how well the doctor understood his weaknesses. But Garak found himself shaking his head.   
  
“I think… I’d like you to stay with me, Doctor” he whispered. Whether he ended up sticking to his resolve or not, somehow Bashir’s presence gave him something to hold on to in the middle of all of this. It was ironically fitting that Garak should feel his own life was ending with Tain’s.  
  
Bashir nodded once, and they both glanced at Martok before stepping through the door and leaving him standing outside.   
  
Bashir walked quietly over to one of the empty beds, and Garak went to Tain’s side. The old Cardassian was staring blankly into space, wearing a lost expression Garak had never seen on his face before.  
  
“Elim?” Tain’s eyes did not settle on him. “Elim, is that you?”  
  
“It’s me,” Garak said. He kept his voice blunt and detached.  
  
“Everything’s gone dark.” Tain eyes continued to wander helplessly. “I can’t see you,” he whispered. “Are you alone?”  
  
“Yes,” Garak said, glancing at Bashir briefly before turning back toward Tain. “There’s no one else… but you and me.”  
  
“Serjak,” Tain said in an urgent hush. “Memad… Brun. They can’t be trusted… they must be dealt with.”  
  
“I’ve already taken care of it,” Garak said, as if there had been no interruption in his work for the Order. In Tain’s current state, the years between seemed erased, and Garak wasn’t sure how else to respond.  
  
Tain let out a small breath of relief. “And what about… Gul Vorlem? Were you able to contact him?”  
  
“Years ago,” Garak said. He told himself that he was being foolish, missing this chance to show Tain that he wasn’t the sentimental fool he had always thought. But this wasn’t the same Tain he’d spoken with before. Garak couldn’t ignore the fear underlying his words, nor the fact that he was turning to Garak for assurance.  
  
“The Romulan Ambassador?” Tain insisted.   
  
“He’s gone,” Garak said, forcing a confident note. He turned his head, looking again at Bashir, to remind himself that he was not alone, and to see how the doctor was reacting. Bashir’s face was impassive, observing without judgment. “All your enemies are dead.”  
  
“Good,” Tain breathed at the ceiling. “A man shouldn’t allow his enemies to outlive him.”  
  
Garak swallowed the second wave of bitterness rising in his throat—just as much due against his hopes as it was to the fact that Tain was not fulfilling them.  
  
“Then you can die happy,” he said. “Unless you still consider _me_ your enemy.”  
  
Tain lifted a hand slightly. “Elim… promise me one thing.”  
  
“I’m listening,” Garak said, allowing a cold impatience to color his words.   
  
“Don’t die here. Escape. _Live_.”  
  
“Let me guess,” said Garak, almost sarcastically, turning to Bashir yet again and slowly letting his attention drift back toward Tain. “So that I can make the dominion _pay_ for what they’ve done to you.”  
  
Tain sighed, almost as if he’d tried to laugh but was too weak. “You wouldn’t deny an old man his revenge, would you?”  
  
“I’ll do as you ask,” Garak said. As if he had a choice… as if he could have ever walked away. He summoned one last bit of defiance. “But on one condition.” He took a quick breath. “That you don’t ask me this favor as a mentor… or a superior officer… but as a father, asking his son.”  
  
“You’re not my son,” Tain immediately said.  
  
“Father,” Garak interrupted, leaning closer to whisper. “ _Father_ , you’re dying. For _once_ in your life, speak the truth.”  
  
Tain shook his head weakly, regretfully. “I should have killed your mother before you were born. You have always been a weakness… I can’t afford….”  
  
“So you’ve told me.” Garak couldn’t keep the edge of a bitter laugh from his voice, fighting down the pain with a smile. “Many times.” He leaned close again, his voice hissing, pleading. “ _Listen_ , Enabran. _All I ask_ … is that for this moment… let me be your son.”  
  
Tain inhaled deeply, and Garak braced himself for another rebuke. “Elim,” Tain said. “Remember that day…in the country? You must have been almost… five.”  
  
“How can I forget it? It was the only day.” It was so sad it was almost funny.  
  
“I can still see you,” Tain said. His breathing was becoming more labored. “On the back of that riding hound. You must have fallen off… a _dozen_ times. But you never… gave up….”  
  
Garak mulled over the memory for a second or two. “I… remember limping home. You held my hand.”  
  
“I was very proud of you,” Tain whispered. “That day….” The edge of his mouth pulled upward in a weak grin at the ceiling.  
  
Garak barely had time to process what he had just heard before Tain’s face began to go slack, and his eyes drifted closed. He wanted more… he was waiting for more, but Tain was dying, perhaps already dead—he watched his face desperately, waiting for him to breathe again.   
  
“Garak.”  
  
Bashir’s voice came softly from behind him, and Garak knew what it meant. Tain was gone, irreversibly this time. Numbly, Garak stood, pulling Tain’s blanket up over his face just as the door to the barracks opened and Worf and Martok stepped inside. When he turned to meet them, the pain was distant—locked away into a small space in the back of his mind.   
  
“Gentlemen, I don’t know about you,” Garak said, his voice surprisingly strong. “But my business here is done.”  
  
“Then I suggest we find a way out of here,” said Worf.  
  
Garak nodded, trying to focus on the task at hand. Work was almost always the best distraction, and in this case, they had to start thinking if they were going to survive. “There must be some way we can use the transmitter that Tain—”  
  
The doors opened, and the Romulan woman came in with two Jem’Hadar soldiers. She pointed to the bed where Tain was lying, and the soldiers moved toward him.  
  
“What are you doing?” Garak blurted, stepping forward, but the second soldier pointed his weapon at him.  
  
“We have come to dispose of the body.”  
  
“And just what are you going to do with it?” Garak demanded.  
  
“Perhaps you would like to join your fellow Cardassian and find out?” The first interrupted, also pointing his gun at Garak. “Sit down.”  
  
Garak backed up a few steps, staring at Tain’s body, and Bashir moved toward him—only to have the guns trained on him instead.  
  
“Wait, wait, alright!” Bashir cried, lifting his hands in a motion of surrender toward the guards. “Come on Garak, let’s sit down….”  
  
He reached tentatively toward Garak, and when the Jem’Hadar relaxed a little, he took Garak by the shoulders and led him away to sit with him on a camp bed. Together, they watched while the soldiers lifted the mattress Tain was on between them and hauled him from the room.   
  
“Easy, Garak,” Bashir whispered. He let his hand rest on one of Garak’s fists which Garak had clenched in his lap.   
  
“I’m fine, Doctor,” Garak said stiffly. “Don’t worry about me.”  
  
But the thought of Tain’s body, vaporized or left to rot here, or else shot out into lonely space without a proper burial, continued to bother him.   
  
“I should have asked him how to operate the transmitter,” Garak said, blank-faced.  
  
“Stop. There may be more guards coming.” The Romulan woman was standing by the door, watching through the window panels.   
  
“Are you some kind of lackey for the Jem’Hadar?” Garak asked her suddenly. “ _Why_ did you tell them that Tain was dead?”  
  
“It is preferable that the body be disposed of before it begins to decompose,” she said dispassionately. “We do not know how long we will be here.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” Martok said. “She is trustworthy.”  
  
Garak took a deep breath, gathering himself.   
  
“The guards are still too close,” the Romulan said. “We must wait.”  
  
For several minutes, they didn’t bring up the transmitter. In fact, they remained silent, and Garak, feeling restless, began to pace. Bashir and Worf soon followed his example, moving uneasily about the barracks, until the Romulan finally gave the all-clear.  
  
“The transmitter Tain used to contact the station,” Worf asked Martok. “Where is it?”  
  
Garak and Bashir had moved close to Martok as well, and when Martok motioned with his head, Bashir went to the wall and took a rough metal tool out from under one of the mattresses. With it, he began prying open the panels, revealing a crawlspace behind them.   
  
Once he was done, Worf crouched to look in, and Bashir went to stand by Garak.  
  
“You have to crawl through that hole,” Bashir said, motioning toward the opening with one arm. “And kind of slide your way up into the wall.”  
  
“It took him over a year to modify the old life support system into a transmitter,” Martok said.  
  
“How did he operate it?” asked Worf.  
  
“He wired the message and the transmission coordinates directly into the system’s circuitry. That way all he had to do was connect the transmitter into the power grid and let it run.”  
  
Garak found himself impressed, perhaps for the last time, with Tain’s genius.  
  
“Could the coordinates and the message be changed?” Worf asked, getting to his feet.  
  
“You’re planning to contact the runabout,” Garak guessed, approaching the hole to take Worf’s place, kneeling in front of it to peer into the darkness within.  
  
“We could activate the transporter and beam ourselves onto the ship—”  
  
“And run like hell,” Bashir interrupted.  
  
“Re-encoding the transmitter won’t be easy,” Garak said with fascination in his voice. “We’d have to reconfigure the array, one circuit at a time.”  
  
“Can you do it?” Bashir asked.  
  
“Me?” Garak blurted faintly, turning to stare at Bashir. He had just been thinking how very unpleasantly dark and cramped the crawlspace was, and how much he disliked small, enclosed spaces.  
  
“I’m no engineer, and neither is Mister Worf, here,” Bashir said with a don’t-look-at-me tone of voice. “ _You_ , on the other hand, my dear Mister Garak, are a man of many hidden talents.”  
  
Garak nearly rolled his eyes at Bashir, and turned his head nervously back toward the dark passage.   
  
Bashir spoke behind him. “If you can’t do it, no one can.”  
  
“It’s nice to feel needed,” Garak said, with a purposeful lack of enthusiasm.   
  
“ALL PRISONERS ASSEMBLE IMMEDIATELY.”  
  
Saved by the intercom, Garak stood up, knowing he was only prolonging the inevitable. Bashir and Worf exchanged looks and they all headed out of the barracks.


	7. A Narrow Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place during 5x15 and some dialogue is taken directly from the episode. Please make comments :D

Garak didn’t know how long it had been, but he trusted that Bashir would notify him when it was time for his next break. Besides, he told himself—he was getting very close to the end of his task, if he could only focus. The mild electrical burns on his hands and the buzzing panic in the back of his mind would be small prices to pay for freedom.   
  
He jumped slightly as he heard the panel close. Someone must be coming through the door. He closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself, running over what he had to do before his mind could shut down. “Replace the coil,” he whispered to himself, “and reroute its energy flow to the main power grid. Replace… the coil….” He pulled it out and made the switch, fighting to keep his mind from drifting to the closed panel or his breathing. All that existed was the relay panel. “Reroute… the energy flow,” he muttered under his breath, flipping the appropriate switches.   
  
It had already been hot with the panel open, but now without even that source of ventilation, Garak felt the sweat begin to roll down his back. He was suddenly very thirsty and wondered when the last time he’d had anything to drink was.  
  
“Now,” he told himself breathlessly. “Now, you need to move on to the next number in the coordinates….” He went through each number he’d already done, out loud, arriving at the next one. “Four,” he whispered, and repeated it a few more times, searching for the appropriate circuit. As he tilted his head up, beads of sweat rolled into his eyes, stinging them. He reached up to wipe it away, his arm quivering again—the light suddenly went out.  
  
It was only for a split second, but Garak felt the panic strike like an electric shock. His heart rate seemed to double in that tiny moment of darkness.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, his words coming too fast. “But that’s _absolutely_ unacceptable—I’m under enough strain as it is, I can’t have you quitting on me!”  
  
He realized just how ridiculous he was being and tried to latch on to that thought.  
  
“Get a hold of yourself, Garak.” He swallowed. “After all, you haven’t had one of these attacks in _years_ —yes, this is a tight, enclosed, space, yes, there’s not a lot of _room_ to move—” He sucked in a breath. “But a disciplined mind does _not_ allow itself to be sidetracked by niggling psychological disorders like… claustrophobia.”  
  
His own voice didn’t sound very reassuring to him, as much as it was quivering.   
  
“Besides,” he told himself, trying to inject his voice with some sort of sweet, comforting tone, like a parent dismissing a child’s fears. “This isn’t like Tzenketh. The walls won’t collapse in on you… your friends are nearby, there’s _plenty_ of air so there’s… nothing to be concerned about.” He closed his eyes for a moment, reminding himself that it was all true. Bashir was just on the other side of the wall—if anything happened, it wasn’t as if he’d be trapped in here for more than a few minutes. Even if the panel stayed closed for _several_ , he wouldn’t suffocate so quickly.   
  
He opened his eyes and the space seemed a bit narrower than before. The light near his face dimmed, sending dread through him like venom.  
  
“ _Focus_ … on the job…” he pleaded with himself. “You’re the only person who can contact the runabout—people are depending on you. _Ziyal_ is depending on you.” He latched onto that thought. “You promised her you’d come back! And that young lady… has had _quite_ enough disappointments in her life without you adding to them, so….” Garak pushed himself to go on. “ _Control_ yourself!” He tried to think of Ziyal waiting on the other side of the wormhole, and how heartbroken and alone she would be if he didn’t keep his promise. “You’re _stronger_ than this.”  
  
Talking to himself seemed to hold back the panic a little—but he wasn’t going to get anywhere if he didn’t get back to work. “A disciplined mind—”  
  
The light went out again. _A disciplined mind_ , Garak said, his whole body rigid as he waited for it to come back on. But it didn’t.  
  
It was like falling from a cliff—Garak couldn’t stop himself. No force of will could keep him from believing that he wasn’t trapped under tons of rock—with his back pressed against the wall, he could barely convince himself that he was standing upright.  
  
“It will come back on, it _will_ come—back—”   
  
The wall in front of him was on top of him, held up by who-knew-what, perhaps just a fragile splintered beam, and if he moved it would collapse on him, crushing him to death—  
  
“No, no you’re standing,” he whispered, wrenching himself out of the memories, his voice barely comprehensible for how fast he was breathing. “You just have to turn around and get out of here, get back to Bashir—Ziyal—Julian—”  
  
Bracing himself, half-convinced he was about to crush himself, he tried to turn, but the wall was solid—it pressed up against him, closer and closer. Frantically, Garak tried to run, but he couldn’t move, his shoulders kept banging against the walls, bringing them closer—he was stuck—he couldn’t breathe, the air was gone—he was going to die here—he _couldn’t_ die here!  
  
His hyperventilated breathing and racing pulse roared in his ears like a bonfire—the heat drenched him with sweat, the sweat drained his strength away, and still, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t remember which way was up; all he knew was that he couldn’t turn around and the walls, the ceiling—!  
  
“Garak.” They were calling to him. Was he hallucinating? Was he still talking to himself? “You can come out now.” His mind whirled, the years bleeding together, Tain letting him out of the closet—but Tain was dead, no one was going to let him out this time, this was different, this was death.  
  
“Garak. Garak, you have to stop. You’re making too much noise.”  
  
No one was there—it was all too dark to see; it was just oxygen deprivation.  
  
“Garak. _Garak!_ ”   
  
Someone was there: an arm across his back, keeping him from twisting. Suddenly, Garak realized the air was not so thick. He was standing, and Bashir was next to him.   
  
“The light,” Garak said blankly, his body still seized up. “The light went out.”  
  
“I know,” Bashir whispered, pulling gently at Garak’s waist, sideways. “Come on. I think you can take your break a little early.” He shifted his arm up around Garak’s shoulders instead, and Garak shuffled sideways, following the gentle pressure of Bashir’s hand. Through the barrage of psychological illusions—the walls closing around him like a flood—Garak’s arm reached to grasp onto Bashir, making certain he wouldn’t be swept away. Everything else was chaos; even emerging into the light was no more significant, for the first few moments, than the whirlpool of disjointed thoughts still rushing through his mind. As he stood, still clinging to Bashir, Worf and Martok stared at him. Garak stared back at them, trying to reassure himself that he had indeed left the crawlspace—he felt as if half of him was still there, still asphyxiating.  
  
“Come on. You need to lie down.” Bashir’s voice was gentle. Somehow, it pierced through the fog.   
  
“What is wrong with him?” said Worf. “What was he doing? He could have drawn the attention of the guards.”  
  
“Not now,” Bashir said firmly, guiding Garak to the bed. Garak laid down on his side, some small part of him aware that he ought to feel humiliated. But more than anything, he felt stunned, incapable of much response to anything except the fact that he was still alive.  
  
“Garak, what happened?” Bashir whispered, leaning over him from behind.   
  
“The light went out,” Garak repeated faintly, unaware that his hand was groping blindly for something to hold on to. Reaching over him, Bashir took his hand and Garak let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.  
  
“And then?” Bashir prompted.   
  
Garak couldn’t seem to raise his voice to more than half a whisper. “I thought I was going to be crushed by the walls, I….”  
  
“It’s alright,” Bashir interrupted, his voice low and gentle. He felt his pulse one more time. “Don’t think too hard about what just happened. You need to rest now. You’ve done well.”  
  
“Doctor….”   
  
“Yes, Garak?” Bashir whispered. “What is it?”   
  
“I….” Garak tried to get a hold of himself, the shame coming in now, stinging like sand blown into his eyes. “It’s… going to be… difficult for me to go back in there.”  
  
“Right now I just want you to relax.” Bashir put a bracing hand on his shoulder, his voice close to Garak’s ear. “Were you having some sort of panic attack?”  
  
“I’m not sure—I just—” Garak’s whispering began to give out as his breathing accelerated again. “There’s… no _air_ and the walls were… I couldn’t… _see_ , couldn’t tell which direction—”  
  
“Easy,” Bashir commanded. “It’s alright. I think I understand. Don’t think about it too hard. You’ve got to get your heart rate and breathing under control.”  
  
“Doctor, can you—” Garak swallowed a breath. “Just tell me… how long was I in there?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Bashir murmured. “All that matters now is for you to recover as quickly as possible, and dwelling on what happened isn’t going to help. Try to summon a memory—some time when you were calm. Maybe outside… I’m sure you must have some good memories from Cardassia….”  
  
A dozen or more images cascaded into Garak’s mind—hiking the forest of a foreign planet with one of the first humans he’d ever met; a greenhouse on Romulus; orphaned Cardassians staring at him in the soft Bajoran sunlight; orchids; the Tarlak Sector at night; Tain sitting numbly in the Gul’s seat aboard his half-wrecked ship; others that were mere snatches of sound or sight. With them came various feelings, none of them soothing enough to clear his mind and slow his racing thoughts.  
  
Bashir began to let go of his hand; Garak gripped it hard, grabbing it with his other hand as well.   
  
“Garak,” Bashir said gently. “It’s okay. I’ll just be a few feet away. I need to talk to Worf and Martok. I’m not going anywhere… I promise.”   
  
Garak, eyes closed, clung a moment, trying to imprint the feeling on his memory—Bashir helped by squeezing his hand and shoulder once before withdrawing. Garak took a deep breath and opened his eyes.  
  
 _I’m sorry, Doctor._ He couldn’t say it out loud; his helplessness was bad enough without being acknowledged verbally. Julian Bashir had spent a good five weeks here, and now his hope for escape was lying on a camp bed, barely passable as sane. A man of many hidden talents, indeed—but not half as many as his hidden flaws.  
  
Bashir spread a blanket over Garak and stood to go speak with the others. Garak listened to his receding footsteps and kept his eyes fixed on the wall, as if by staring at it, he could keep it from collapsing. In his mind’s eye, however, he tried to picture Bashir next to him as he had been a moment ago.   
  
“It would appear that he suffers from an acute form of claustrophobia,” Bashir was saying. Garak wished he hadn’t said anything, but what else could the doctor do? “It’s a wonder that he lasted as long as he did.”  
  
“Then one of us will have to finish reconfiguring the transmitter,” said Worf.  
  
“And who would you suggest could do that?” Bashir said quietly.  
  
There was a silence.  
  
“Exactly,” said Bashir.  
  
“If Garak can’t contact the runabout,” said Martok, “we’re not going anywhere.”  
  
Garak heard the words, and knew he was their only chance of escape at this point, but all he could think about was the fear, and the relief now that he was out of the crawlspace, and the sheer impossibility of ever going back in. He went over the feeling of Bashir’s arm guiding him out, and the blanket Bashir spread over him was like a lifeline, reminding him that this was reality—not the certain oblivion he’d imagined before. 

...

Worf, Martok, and Bashir briefly discussed whatever options they could think of, but there was very little they could come up with. Garak listened to their conversation, only processing bits and pieces while waiting for the waves of anxiety to lessen and recede.  
  
The conversation was taking a turn.   
  
“Well,” Bashir was saying agitatedly, “if we don’t know how long we’ll be here, I guess the next question is, how long will you live?”  
  
“I will continue to fight,” Worf said suddenly.  
  
Bashir’s voice was impatient. “Isn’t it more honorable to _escape_ and find a way to defeat the Dominion, not just a few Jem’Hadar in a ring?”  
  
“I will not yield! Besides… there is no guarantee that they would not kill me if I refused the match.”  
  
“But they haven’t said they would! Worf, as your doctor—”  
  
“You do not understand!” Worf growled. “It is because you are not a Klingon.”  
  
“We do not know that any of us will escape,” said Martok. “And there is no honor in wasting away in a prison when a glorious death can be found in battle.”  
  
Bashir sighed heavily.   
  
“Perhaps this will buy us some time,” Martok said, trying to be encouraging. “And distract the prison guards.”  
  
Silence fell. Garak wondered if they were looking at him, contemplating how he’d failed them all, making their efforts worth nothing. No one seemed to move for over a full minute, and then Garak heard the door open.   
  
“We are ready for the next match.” It was a Jem’Hadar speaking.  
  
There were footsteps. The door opened and closed again. Garak’s chest felt tight; he tried to fill his lungs gradually, but ended up inhaling in a rush instead.  
  
“What? What is it?” Bashir was suddenly at his side.   
  
Garak stayed silent, unable to think of a response that would ease Bashir’s needless worry over him. It was terrible, the way the doctor tried to shield him from his own failure.  
  
He heard Bashir sit down beside his bed, but he kept his back to him.  
  
“Did Major Kira have the baby yet?”  
  
Garak blinked at the wall. “Yes.”  
  
“I’m sorry I missed it… I hope my double didn’t botch the delivery.”  
  
“Everything was fine, as far as I know,” Garak said flatly.  
  
“Have they given him a name?”  
  
Garak tried to remember—he knew he’d heard it once or twice. “Kiriyoshi, I believe.”  
  
“Has anyone died since I’ve been away?”  
  
The question took Garak off guard. “Not that I know of.” He rolled onto his back and looked at Bashir’s worried face. “No one you could have saved. Then again, I’m sure the Changeling could cover his tracks quite well if he decided to carry out a murder.”  
  
“Thank you, Garak,” Bashir said with a sarcastic grin. “You always know the _perfect_ thing to say.”  
  
“Well, at least I’m good for something.” Garak looked away.   
  
“You can’t always help things like this,” Bashir murmured. “It’s no different from a physical illness or injury—you can’t blame someone whose leg is broken for not being able to run. No amount of willpower can change that.”  
  
“I’m afraid I must disagree with you, Doctor.” Garak closed his eyes and tried again to steady his voice, without much success. “In matters of irrational fears, we Cardassians believe that there is nothing which cannot be overcome by a disciplined mind.”  
  
“Tell me about Ziyal. Is she still trying to win your affection?”  
  
Garak knew why the Doctor was changing the subject, and he wasn’t sure if he felt grateful or annoyed. “Oh, not to the same extent.”  
  
“That’s surprising; she seemed so determined before. What changed?”  
  
Garak let out a long sigh. He’d shared quite enough embarrassing secrets already. “I took your imposter’s advice and had a rather _uncomfortable_ conversation with her over lunch one day.”   
  
A different sensation was creeping over Garak, and had been for several minutes. It wasn’t panic, and it wasn’t confusion or feverish disorientation, but a subtle, nagging sadness and sense of loss. He couldn’t quite place where it came from—or he didn’t want to try, anyway. He had a feeling that whatever the source, it wouldn’t make much logical sense. It seemed like ages ago that he had knelt at Tain’s bedside.  
  
“I see… how did she take it?”  
  
Garak’s voice sounded exhausted, even to him. “Fine, of course, and our friendship is still intact. She’s a very reasonable young lady. Still, Gul Dukat has probably spirited her away to join him on Cardassia now that he’s sold our entire civilization to the Dominion.”  
  
“We don’t know that. I don’t think the Federation will give up Deep Space Nine without a fight.”  
  
“I’m not sure I find that thought any more comforting,” Garak muttered.  
  
“Sorry,” said Bashir.  
  
“No need to apologize, Doctor,” Garak said impatiently, opening his eyes to give Bashir an exasperated look. “You have already done _more_ than enough.”  
  
Bashir tried to smile but only managed a grim, sad, expression.   
  
“I know you were counting on me to get you and the others home,” Garak said, voice quivering with suppressed guilt as he let his eyes rove over the walls. “No doubt you have more to lose than I do, more people longing for your return.”  
  
“Well, maybe, but it’s not as if you don’t have someone waiting for you as well. And it’s not as if I’m even the most popular person on the station. I think most people find me to be an insufferable annoyance. What was it you called me? An infuriating pest!”  
  
“Oh, don’t be modest, Doctor,” Garak sighed. “People may resent you for your intellect, but underneath all of that, I doubt they can help but like you.”  
  
Bashir looked startled at the compliment.  
  
Garak went on, covering for himself. “And then there’s Chief O’Brien and that dabo girl, Leeta….”  
  
“Leeta,” Bashir said wistfully. “I wonder if she and Rom ever got together.”  
  
“Oh.” Garak eyed Bashir narrowly. He told himself that he was only continuing this little gossiping session because it was an effective distraction from his anxiety. “So you did end your relationship on Risa?”  
  
“Yes,” Bashir said. “I was actually wondering if the Changeling would have known about that and acted accordingly.”  
  
“He certainly did.”  
  
“What do you mean by that?” Bashir asked, looking startled.  
  
“Oh, nothing you need to be concerned about, Doctor,” Garak said tightly. “He just didn’t express any interest in Leeta—or any other women, as far as I can tell.”  
  
“Oh….” Bashir nodded thoughtfully. “Well, it’s not as if anyone is missing me in any case. Not even my patients—no one even knows I’m gone!”  
  
“Even so, I’m sure I’ve proven myself to be _quite_ the disappointment,” Garak said bitterly. “Any hopes you might have had on my arrival here are no doubt obliterated.”  
  
“Listen, Garak,” Bashir said sharply. “I know why you’re feeling this way, but you can’t let yourself pay any attention to what Tain said to you.”  
  
“Doctor, _please!_ ” Garak hissed “It is really quite unnecessary to keep revisiting this point. This has _nothing_ to do with Enabran Tain’s completely justified disappointment in me. This is about our present situation! I am currently incapable of completing one _very_ simple task which also happens to be the only way we’ve come up with to escape! And yet you act as if you aren’t a bit upset! Well… you can spare me your coddling, because I don’t deserve it, and I don’t think that’s going to change very soon.”  
  
To his fury, Bashir just smiled. “I wasn’t trying to coddle you. I still expect you to make a full recovery—and either way, we _will_ find a way out of here. If we don’t, well—at least we’ll die together.”  
  
Garak was momentarily speechless. “Well…” he said awkwardly, after a silence. “I would tell you not to get your hopes up, but since you’re so excruciatingly naïve, I doubt it would do any good.”  
  
Bashir’s smile only deepened, accentuating what Garak was sure were extra wrinkles around the eyes that he’d gained from his month here. How is it that his face, even so dirty and unshaven and haggard, still seemed so beautiful to Garak at times like these? The sadness came even deeper and more painful than before, and Garak took a shaky breath, tearing his eyes away and rolling over so his back was once again facing the doctor.  
  
In the silence, he could hear the grunts and cries of hand-to-hand combat coming from beyond the door, and the thought of Worf fighting sent a fresh wave of shame through him.  
  
“I know it’s not really home to you as much as it is to me,” Bashir murmured behind him, “but I’m sure you want to get back to Deep Space Nine just as much as I do. At least there, we have our lunches together to look forward to.”  
  
Garak didn’t reply.  
  
For several minutes, Bashir remained sitting next to him. Garak found his mind inevitably drifting toward the crawlspace, and without any mundane discussion to distract him, the fight began all over again. He lay there stewing in his anxiety until Bashir got to his feet and began pacing. He must be thinking… trying to find another way to contact the runabout. But Garak knew it was pointless.  
  
Still, he began to think about the station, envisioning it in his mind’s eye. If anyone had ever told him that he would be homesick for Terok Nor, he would have laughed. But there was some truth to Bashir’s words. A certain warmth had woven itself into his memories, surrounding the replemat, Quark’s, the infirmary, and even his tailor shop: the familiar places—all too familiar, he usually thought—where now he met with friends more often than not. That fact alone was remarkable, considering how few friends he really had. What he wouldn’t give to be sitting at their usual table, sipping Rokassa juice and discussing even the tritest of Earth novels. What he wouldn’t trade to be able to erase this entire journey from his life.  
  
But if he hadn’t come, Bashir would have been left here to die, perhaps without ever being missed by the people he cared about. That was a fate which Garak considered unbearable, and the doctor certainly didn’t deserve it after all the good he’d done in the lives of nearly everyone he’d met. Even if he hadn’t gotten what he wanted from Tain, his presence here had a purpose, no matter how unpleasant its execution would be.   
  
Still, there was no point in realizing this if even the thought of returning to the crawlspace made his pulse jump. Running with a broken leg… Garak wondered if it might not be an accurate analogy after all, especially for the discomfort that was sure to result from the attempt. The feeling of helplessness was almost more suffocating than the space between the walls.  
  
The doors opened and closed again. The sounds of combat were still going strong. Garak glanced over his shoulder to see who their visitors were: the Romulan woman, accompanied by her male companion. Garak realized he hadn’t noticed her leave. She had probably used his panic as an opportunity to take a break from her watch by the door. The Breen was still on the same bed where Garak had last seen it lying.  
  
“Has a solution to our problem been discussed?” the woman asked.  
  
“It has been… discussed, yes.” Bashir’s tone was guarded. “But nothing has been decided yet.”  
  
“Is he awake?”  
  
“He is,” Garak said stiffly.  
  
As footsteps approached, he sat up, surprised to see the Romulan man offering him a cup of water.   
  
For a moment he glanced suspiciously between the glass and the Romulan’s face, then to Bashir’s before he took the offered cup, lifting it in a little toast of gratitude. “Thank you.” He took a long sip. The water was cool, even if it did taste a bit stale. He quickly drank the rest of it.  
  
The Romulan man moved away to go discuss something in low voices with the woman. Bashir was watching Garak, so he lay back down, trying to gather whatever strength he had left to make a decision.  
  
“I think it is nearly time,” the Romulan man said. “The Jem’Hadar are dispersing, but your Klingon ally may need assistance.”  
  
“Right,” Bashir said, and a moment later Garak heard the door open and one set of footsteps leave the room.   
  
Bashir wasn’t gone for long. Garak stared at the empty cup he’d set on the floor by his bed. A gesture of hope from someone who had heard what he was doing—or even worse, an act of kindness with no clear motive behind it?  
  
The door opened. Garak didn’t look up; he could hear Worf’s labored breathing well enough.  
  
“Seven battles!” Martok announced. “And seven victories. What hero of legend could have done as well?”  
  
“Heroes of legend do not ache so much,” said Worf.  
  
Martok chuckled, his enthusiasm never dampened. “Your Federation friends have taught you modesty. But this is no time for modesty.”  
  
Garak heard Bashir digging through the scant collection of medical supplies.  
  
“When we return to the Klingon Empire,” Martok went on, “I will seek out Keedera himself, and tell him of your glorious tale! He will write a song worthy of you!”  
  
“Well, be sure to send me a copy,” Bashir said.  
  
“I’ll do better than that,” Martok growled kindly. “I’ll make sure that he mentions _you_ … the healer—that bound the warrior’s wounds, so he could fight again!”  
  
“Right now,” Worf said wearily, “the only verse that _I_ wish to hear is the verse that tells of our escape.” Garak heard him inhaling painfully. “What good is defeating every Jem’Hadar in this compound if it does not bring us closer to our freedom?”  
  
So even the Klingon was not content to fight and die any longer.  
  
“We have to come up with a new escape plan,” Bashir said, and because Garak had been anticipating this, he replied immediately.  
  
“That _won’t_ be necessary.”  
  
He had too many promises to keep—to Tain, to Ziyal… as well as some unspoken promises to Bashir, and to himself. Ironic, that his life mattered to more people, in this moment, than perhaps it ever had. Garak sat up, exhaling, trying to rid himself of the last bit of despair.  
  
“The original one will work,” he clarified after being met with three startled stares. He got to his feet. “I just have to finish what I started. After all, a verse about the Cardassian who panicked in the face of danger would ruin General Martok’s song.”  
  
A smile began to creep over Bashir’s face, and another, completely unalike, over Martok’s. It almost made Garak less afraid… but not quite.  
  
“That would be unfortunate,” Martok said.  
  
Garak smiled and nodded at him. “Now… if you’ll excuse me.” He looked over toward the panels, his fingertips tingling in miserable anticipation. “My dungeon awaits.”  
  
Giving himself no time to hesitate, he turned and walked toward it without waiting for anyone. Bashir hurried to his side to help move the bed and open the panels. Just before he reached down to do so, he caught Garak’s eye. There was something especially delighted in the doctor’s brief smile that said he had always believed Garak would come through but was still proud to know he had been right. Garak tried to communicate his feelings similarly, but Bashir was already hefting the bed away from the wall, so he added that to the list of things he could only accomplish once he’d gotten them all out of this miserable place.  
  
He stood still and watched Bashir remove the panels, staring at the black space behind them. Think of the station, he told himself. Think of everyone waiting out here.   
  
Bashir straightened and stepped back. “Good luck.”  
  
“Thank you, Doctor,” Garak said sincerely. He didn’t bother to remind Bashir that luck was meaningless. In this case, it was entirely the thought that counted. 

...

For the first chunk of time, Garak worked quickly. Every time his mind began to fritz, or a zap of electricity caught him by surprise, he forced himself to visualize flying away in the runabout, free in the vastness of space; he thought of Bashir, safe and sound having lunch with him, and the way Ziyal’s face would no doubt light up when she heard that he had made it back to the Alpha Quadrant alive.   
  
Worf and Martok had left again for another round of battles—he’d heard the panel close, and Worf loudly accepting the Jem’Hadar’s challenge. Once again, the heat was intense. The water seemed to have helped—Garak’s head remained clear even as he began to sweat again. His heart rate rose steadily as time went on, but he thought of Bashir waiting just outside and continued.  
  
The light dimmed a few times, but never went out. Bashir had left the panel open while he’d fiddled with the connection until it came back on. Six more circuits to reconfigure and then they could run and never look back. Garak reached down to pull a relay that was buried beneath a maze of other circuitry. Slowly, he felt his way, expecting a shock at any moment. When he found it, it was stiff and unresponsive to his fingers. He threw his weight sideways, and it came loose—Garak looked up at the light nervously, but it continued shining dimly.   
  
For a moment, he wondered how Tain had managed it all. In his old age, he wasn’t as slim as Garak, so the space would have been even tighter—how had he managed to contort himself to reach all these relays and switches and cords, much less rearrange them without electrocuting himself? Garak caught himself falling into a shade of his old hero-worship and tried not to laugh mockingly at himself.  
  
“Tain,” he said instead, quietly, trying to dispel his own tension. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can, I just want you to know….” He took a deep breath. “You may not have been much of a father, but I _really wish_ you were alive right now.” He swallowed, finding himself less amusing than usual. “That way you could be in here instead of me.”  
  
No reply came from the circuit boards, of course, or from beyond the panels. The urge to laugh was being counteracted by the incessant feeling that the air in the passage was running out. Five more, Garak told himself, and wiped the sweat away from his eyes. He held the image of space in his mind, and reached for the next set of switches.   
  
A noise came from behind the panel. Worf coming back already? Garak waited to see if it would open, but it didn’t. Instead he heard Bashir rap twice on the panel. Dread knotted his stomach and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, going still. Jem’Hadar in the barracks.  
  
He tried to listen past his breathing, which was getting louder in his ears.   
  
“The Cardassian. Where is he?” The Jem’Hadar’s voice sounded odd and muffled.  
  
“Outside,” Bashir’s voice replied, and then something he couldn’t make out.  
  
A sound made Garak’s gut contract as if he’d been kicked. Had that been Bashir, grunting in pain? Two thuds; something had hit the ground. His mind pictured the doctor being beaten by the Jem’Hadar. He didn’t have the Klingon’s physical resilience. He could easily be damaged to the point of death before the Jem’Hadar knew what they had done.  
  
“He is _not_ outside,” a Jem’Hadar said.  
  
Someone said something, but it was too muffled for Garak to make out anything except that he thought—but couldn’t be sure—it was Bashir’s voice.  
  
Again, the soldier spoke: “He is to be put to death.”   
  
Garak was fairly certain the soldier meant him, not Bashir, but either way he was helpless again. Panic flared along his nerves—he had to force himself to stay still and listen.  
  
“Sir,” someone said. Garak braced himself, waiting on edge for another sign that Bashir was alright. Seconds seemed to drag by.  
  
“If you wish to live… explain this.”  
  
There was only one sure way to get out of this—he had to finish re-encoding the transmitter before the Jem’Hadar got too impatient. He only hoped he could move fast enough to keep the doctor alive.  
  
He reached for the fifth circuit and yanked it free, not caring if he got shocked in the process. It took him a matter of seconds to push it in—he winced against a prolonged smattering of hot sparks and turned to press the appropriate keys.   
  
“Speak. If you do not answer, we will kill you and question another prisoner instead.”  
  
Garak swallowed, cursing his hands silently for shaking. Feverishly, he punched the last code for the fifth circuit, then moved on to the fourth, hissing against a low voltage current that jumped through all the nerve endings in his body.   
  
“I ask you for the last time. What is this?”  
  
He wasn’t going fast enough! Garak fit the circuit into its new port and reached for the relay.  
  
“It’s either a self-sealing stem bolt or reverse ratcheting router, I’m just not sure.”   
  
They’re not going to like that tone, Doctor, Garak nearly said aloud, desperately rerouting the energy flow before reaching frantically for the next.   
  
There was a disruptor fire. The noise was unmistakable: a Jem’Hadar weapon.  
  
Everything in front of him seemed to blur together into an incomprehensible mess. Garak froze with his hand halfway up the wall, his heart somehow still beating.   
  
“She is next.” Who was he talking to? Who had he killed?  
  
“Sir!”   
  
The scrape of the bed frame sent another chill through Garak.   
  
“If you’ll allow me.”  
  
Garak heard the panels being taken off, and reached to twist the light attachment, extinguishing it. He felt his way carefully across the panel—he had to keep working, silently. There was still a chance Bashir was alive, and if so, he had to finish before that changed.  
  
With his mind on the doctor, the darkness and cramped space seemed like secondary threats—still real, still nearly overpowering, but not something he could surrender to, not while he still had a chance to save Bashir’s life. His hands felt cold rather than hot and swollen. His mental image of the panels in front of him was oddly clear.  
  
He felt his way, reassuring himself of the third-to-last circuit’s relative position. He had to get it right. Ah, there it was. He pulled, ears straining for the sound of someone joining him in the crawlspace.  
  
“I see nothing,” a voice echoed into the narrow passage. “It’s dark.”  
  
Garak froze, then resumed edging the circuit toward its destination, feeling along with both hands.   
  
Another disruptor blast. He went still. Was that the Romulan? Then came the sounds of some sort of scuffle, he was sure of it. Cries, grunts, growls, and thuds. And another blast—maybe two at once.   
  
“My people have a saying.” It was the Romulan woman. That probably meant the Jem’Hadar were gone. He didn’t hear what the saying was.  
  
“Doctor, would you keep the noise down?” Garak called. It was the only way to know for sure. “I’m trying to work in here!”  
  
“Garak!” Bashir’s voice came to him from the other side, sending a thrill of relief through him. He kept the light off, however, still feeling his way to the right spot for this circuit.  
  
“How many transtator circuits have you got left?” Bashir called.   
  
“Three!”  
  
“Well work fast, because pretty soon we’re gonna be up to our necks in Jem’Hadar!”  
  
Garak turned the light back on and plugged in the circuit, flipping the relays as fast as he could locate them. Two more, and then freedom! They had made it this far….  
  
The last two circuits seemed to take ages, even though Garak knew he was working faster than ever before.   
  
“Ready?” Bashir called.  
  
“Almost….”  
  
Garak found the last relays, shied away from one last shower of sparks, and tapped the power, a not-unpleasant chill of excitement ripping through his body.  
  
“Got it!”  
  
The runabout’s interior materialized before his eyes, and Garak rushed to ready the craft for departure. Behind him, he heard Bashir speaking to Martok.  
  
“Take him to one of the cabins in the back—I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”  
  
Garak input the coordinates for the wormhole, his hands remarkably steady considering how his entire body felt like it was buzzing with adrenaline.  
  
“Garak.” Worf’s voice came hoarsely from behind.  
  
Garak turned in his seat to face him. The Klingon looked exhausted, covered in sweat and bleeding in a few places.   
  
“You did well,” said Worf.  
  
Garak gave him a respectful nod, glad he hadn’t been too late. “So did you.”  
  
The Klingons moved toward the back.  
  
“Take us to maximum warp, Garak!” Bashir cried, coming to join him. “We’ve got to get our message to the station.”  
  
As Garak piloted the runabout toward the wormhole, Bashir worked quickly beside him, sending his message.   
  
“Oh, and don’t forget,” Garak said suddenly, “unless they’ve already attacked—Commander Worf and I ran into a massive fleet of Jem’Hadar ships in a nebula, not too far away. The Dominion is no doubt planning to invade the Alpha Quadrant.”  
  
“ _What?_ ” Bashir gaped at him. “Why didn’t you tell me about that before?”  
  
“Well, I never had much of a chance—things have been happening very quickly—now that’s odd, no one’s in pursuit of us yet.”  
  
“Are you sure?”   
  
“Well, I suppose they could be cloaked,” Garak said, “but in that case, they should be firing on us by now.”  
  
They were silent for a moment, awaiting some change as they raced toward the wormhole. Silence.   
  
“Unfortunately, I’m going to have to take that as a sign that you’re probably right—I wouldn’t be surprised if most of their ships in this sector are now on the other side. We could be flying right into a battle zone.”  
  
“I don’t see that we have much of a choice,” Garak said tensely.  
  
He and Bashir exchanged a glance, and both knew that they could very well still be standing on the edge of death’s doorstep.  
  
“Doctor, I just want to say—”  
  
“Wait,” Bashir interrupted. “I have to thank you for what you did. Who’s the hero now?”  
  
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Garak laughed. “Your bedside manner is the stuff of legend, my dear doctor. And it’s not easy being locked up by yourself for extended periods of time.”  
  
“Yes, I suppose you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Bashir said, but there was no malice or sarcasm in it—only understanding. “Well, I think that when we get back to the station, we ought to celebrate your technical genius by finishing that holosuite program we were working on.”  
  
“Sherlock Holmes?”   
  
“What? No, the one set on Cardassia—or did you already finish it while I’ve been away?”  
  
“Only one of the mysteries. We’ve also played through almost three on the Sherlock Holmes program your double provided.”  
  
“Oh, I see.” Bashir looked surprisingly disappointed. “Well… I think I’ve done all I can with this message. I’d better go check on Worf.” He got up out of his seat.  
  
“Doctor,” Garak called after him. Bashir turned around. Garak could have said many things in that moment, but none of them seemed fitting enough.   
  
“Yes?” Bashir prompted patiently.  
  
“I’m glad I didn’t let you down,” Garak said. “Even if your expectations _are_ unrealistic. It’s quite unfair actually.”  
  
He was rewarded with a broad smile. “Oh, I think I know you well enough by now to not expect anything too unrealistic. But… I’m glad too.” Bashir shifted a few more steps toward the back and looked over his shoulder. “Now just get us home in one piece so that I’ll know I was completely right to trust you with our lives.”  
  
“Oh, it’s always been a mistake to do _that_ ,” Garak said, and turned back toward the con.

...

 As they emerged on the other side of the wormhole, Garak expected an instant barrage of heavy weapons fire, but instead there was silence. Deep Space Nine hung suspended in space, seeming completely at peace. It made Garak nervous.  
  
“Should I hail them?” Bashir had returned from patching Worf up.    
  
“Well, if they don’t respond, we can take it as a sign that something is terribly wrong.”  
  
Bashir sent the hail. They only had a few seconds to wait before Jadzia Dax showed up on the view screen. “It’s good to see you again, Julian. I’m reading five life signs aboard. Is Worf with you?”  
  
“Yes, he is,” Bashir said. “Did you get my message about the Changeling?”  
  
“We did. He’s gone now.”  
  
“But wasn’t there some sort of attack on the station?”  Garak interrupted.  
  
“We obviously have a lot to discuss. Captain Sisko wants to meet with you immediately in the wardroom.”  
  
“Well, in that case—requesting permission to dock,” Bashir said, blowing out a sigh.  
  
“Permission granted.” Dax smiled. “Welcome home.”

...

The debriefing took a lot longer than Garak anticipated. Oh, it was nice to know what had gone on in their absence, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant to contemplate the Changeling’s plan to detonate the Bajoran sun, destroying the station, Bajor, and the wormhole all at once. Nor was it particularly fun to dwell on Cardassia’s future now that Dukat had openly pledged loyalty to the Dominion.   
  
But the greatest shock of all was the way everyone was looking at him after he described how he had re-encoded the transmitter.  
  
“Mister Garak,” said Sisko. “I may just have to offer you an assignment as Chief O’Brien’s assistant.”  
  
“While I appreciate the offer, Captain, I _think_ I would rather stick to sewing.”  
  
“Still,” Sisko said, standing up straight and coming around the table to where Garak was sitting. Garak stood to meet him. “I have you to thank for the safe return of my Chief Medical Officer _and_ my Lieutenant Commander.” Sisko extended a hand. “Well done.”  
  
Garak reluctantly took the Captain’s hand and shook it firmly, not sure if he was entirely comfortable with the approval in Sisko’s eyes. He glanced at Bashir, who looked almost amused.  
  
“I may need your help again in the future,” Sisko went on in one of his low, dramatic tones. “That is, assuming you’re just as disturbed by the news from Cardassia as I am.”  
  
“Disturbed would be… an accurate description,” Garak said.  
  
“Good. Then I’m sure you’ll be happy to cooperate with any future attempts to free Cardassia from Dominion rule.”  
  
Garak hesitated a moment, knowing full well that Sisko was asking for some sort of pledge of allegiance to Starfleet’s goals during this war. The Captain’s expectations were probably even more unrealistic than Bashir’s if he thought that Garak would follow Starfleet into any battle against the Dominion without question. Still, he had little choice—these were the only allies he had at the moment.   
  
He gave a curt nod. “Did Gul Dukat take his daughter with him when he joined the Dominion fleet?”  
  
“No,” said Major Kira from the other side of the table. “He left her here. She told him she was waiting for you.”  
  
A surprising warmth spread through Garak’s chest.  
  
Sisko dismissed them, and Garak was on his way to the promenade to find Ziyal when the doctor ran up behind him.  
  
“And where do you think you’re going?” Bashir asked.  
  
“I’m not about to keep Ziyal waiting any longer,” Garak said. “I’m sure she’s been under quite a lot of strain today.”  
  
“So have you,” Bashir said sternly. “I never did get a good look at the electrical burns on your hands. Those should be treated right away.” He took hold of Garak’s arm and Garak stopped in his tracks, startled.  
  
“Doctor,” he exclaimed. “I appreciate—”  
  
“My concern, but you don’t think this is the time to worry about a few ‘little’ burns?” Bashir finished for him. “Well, I think this is the perfect time to worry about them. After all,” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You don’t want to cause Ziyal any more distress over your appearance than you have to. And hopefully you don’t want to cause me any unnecessary stress from wondering if you’re ever going to let me do my job!”  
  
“Oh, Doctor, you have nothing to worry about,” Garak said with a smile. “I’m sure you’ll be seeing plenty of me after today. After all, you’re not going to let me back out on my promise of an emotional heart-to-heart.”  
  
“Of course not,” Bashir smirked. “Now come on—we’re going to the infirmary.”


	8. Diagnostics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers part of 5x16, but contains only new scenes. Enjoy!

“You’ve got to stop turning the safeties off in the holosuite, Jadzia. I’m serious. Any lower and this wound would have been fatal.” Bashir squinted and frowned as he moved the dermal regenerator steadily across Dax’s side.  
  
“Right. I’ll put it on my to-do list, right next to ‘give up gambling.’ Life’s no fun without a little risk, Julian! Lighten up!”  
  
“Life’s no fun at all if you’re dead!” Bashir snapped.  
  
“What’s gotten into you?” Dax looked at him as if he were crazy—nothing new. “Bad day? Replicator malfunctioning again?”  
  
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Bashir muttered. “Nothing to do with you anyway. Just… don’t let me see you in here again for another week at _least._ ”  
  
“Oh… I know that look,” Dax said slyly. “You’ve had an argument with someone. Who was it? Did you try to start over with Leeta?”  
  
“None of your business,” Bashir whispered.  
  
“Who was it then?  
  
“Jadzia!”  
  
“Julian, you can _tell_ me! Don’t make me have Captain Sisko relieve you of duty because you’re snapping at the patients.” She shook her head and tsked at him.  
  
He gave her an impatient scowl, but she just batted her eyelashes, undaunted.  
  
“I just had a… frustrating conversation with Garak yesterday, that’s all.”  
  
“Oh, of course… Garak…!”  
  
“What?” Bashir frowned. “What do you mean ‘of course, Garak’?”  
  
“Nothing. So what was so frustrating about it?”  
  
Bashir huffed a sigh, pretending to run another scan on Dax’s internal organs. “That’s what was so infuriating—it was hard to even tell if what he was saying meant anything or if he was just trying to distract me! Most of the time I can figure out what he’s trying to say, even when he’s being evasive—”  
  
“—which is most of the time, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes! But this was even worse than normal.” Bashir set down the tricorder. “He went through a lot while we were in that internment camp, we both did… I’m just worried that he’s suffering alone because he’s too stubborn and too secretive to talk to anyone.”  
  
“Not even to you?” Dax cried, half-teasing. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get through to him eventually. If anyone can figure him out, it’s you. You’ve probably spent more time with him than anyone else on the station.”  
  
“I dunno… I tried to get him to talk, and technically he did, but no matter how long our conversation was, he didn’t actually _say_ much. And then he left early!” Bashir sighed heavily. “I suppose I should have expected this, it’s just… we were so open with each other in that internment camp—we understood each other so perfectly, and now… now it’s like he’s… scared….” Bashir trailed off, feeling as if he’d had an ah-ha moment which had left him more confused than before. “It doesn’t make any sense! Why be self-conscious now when I’ve already seen him at his lowest—twice, in fact!”  
  
“Hmm… sounds like it was a pretty intimate experience,” Dax whispered. “Trying to escape together. It seems like he had no choice but to be open with you. Maybe, now that you’re both out of the fire, he’s second-guessing how close he’s letting you get to him.”  
  
“But why? We’re on the same side now, and after five years, is there any reason for him to doubt that I don’t care how many secrets he has or what he’s done—”  
  
Bashir cut off suddenly, realizing that someone was approaching. He glanced over his shoulder: it was Ziyal.  
  
“Doctor Bashir,” she said politely. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”  
  
“Oh, not at all, I was just finishing. Are you alright?”  
  
“Oh no, I’m not sick—I just wondered if I could talk to you about something… in private. I can come back another time if you’re too busy.”  
  
“Well, I think I’ve done about all I can for Jadzia.” Bashir glanced at her, not liking the mischievous look in her eye as she looked between him and Ziyal. “Try not to die fighting holographic targs.”  
  
“I’ll do my best,” Dax said, hopping off the examination table and heading out of the infirmary with an ominous spring to her step.  
  
Bashir turned to Ziyal. “Come on, we can talk over here….” He led her to a secluded section of the infirmary. “There…. Now. What is it?”  
  
Ziyal hesitated, then seemed to get a grip on herself—her hands went down to her sides stiffly. “How do you feel about Garak? Are you in love with him?”  
  
“What? In love with _Garak?_ ” Bashir stared at Ziyal, an incredulous grin creeping over his face. “No—I—what gave you that idea?”  
  
“Please, Doctor Bashir,” Ziyal said resolutely. “I need you to be honest with me. I understand Garak’s feelings for you, but you were the one who brought them out, and I need to make sure that you really do return his feelings, because if you don’t, it means I don’t have to give up. It means I still have a chance.”  
  
“Ziyal… what are you talking about?” Bashir kept his voice low. “What feelings?”  
  
“How you can act like you don’t know?”  
  
“Wait,” Bashir struggled to keep up, and to keep his voice down. “Um, start from the beginning. When did _you_ start thinking I was in love with _Garak?_ Does anyone else think so?”  
  
“Well, I haven’t told anyone—I promised Garak I wouldn’t.” Ziyal looked confused. “He told me at lunch one day… that you kissed his hand.”  
  
“I never kissed his hand!” Bashir blurted.  
  
“Why would he lie about that? Do you think he was just trying to discourage me?”  
  
Bashir stared at her crestfallen face, putting the pieces together. “Wait… how long ago was this?”  
  
“A few weeks ago,” Ziyal said sadly. “You two have been spending so much time together… and Garak decided that since you said you would give a relationship a try, he would too. He really does love you. But why would he lie about you kissing his hand?”  
  
“It wasn’t a lie,” Bashir said distractedly. “It just wasn’t the truth.”  
  
“What?” Ziyal asked, but Bashir was already walking away from her, telling the nurses he would be back in a few minutes. He jogged across the promenade toward Garak’s shop and suddenly stopped short—he could see Garak’s back from here; the tailor was taking measurements from Major Kira.  
  
He wanted to wait until Garak’s shop was empty, so he paced back and forth, coming in and out of sight of the door, and thinking. The disbelief that had exploded in him before was now settling in his stomach, and he began to wonder if he really wanted to ask about this.  
  
“Doctor Bashir!”  
  
He whirled to see Ziyal approaching him.  
  
“Are you going to talk to Garak?” She asked him.  
  
“Well, I was considering it, but he seems a little busy—”  
  
“Major Kira just left; I think his shop is empty now.” Ziyal pointed. “I want to find out what Garak’s explanation is as well.”  
  
Bashir took a deep breath. Perhaps it was for the best. He nodded and together they walked into Garak’s shop.  
  
“Ah!” Garak said when he caught sight of them. “Doctor! Ziyal! What a pleasant surprise: both of you coming to see me at the same time. Are you here as customers or just coming by to say hello?”  
  
“Garak.” Bashir cleared his throat. “Ziyal and I were just talking about how much time you and I used to spend together, before you left for the Gamma Quadrant.”  
  
Garak only hesitated for a second. “Ah, yes… well… we both have a lot to catch up on lately, don’t we? Our work consumes our lives, but without it, what _is_ our significance?”  
  
Ziyal was looking between them, still a bit confused.  
  
Bashir refused to be distracted. “She seems to be under the impression that you and I are… in love. Intimately involved, in fact.”  
  
“Our relationship has barely started, Doctor,” Garak said, shooting a brief smile at Ziyal. “I don’t think it’s wise to make too much of it at this point—people _might_ misunderstand the depth and sincerity of our actions. Still… _some_ things have certainly changed since I left.”  
  
Bashir studied Garak’s expression, trying to sort it all out before he spoke again. So Garak had at least begun some sort of relationship—possibly romantic—with the Changeling, but it hadn’t gotten very far, and not all the resulting actions were sincere. But on whose part?  
  
“Yes… well… perhaps it’s time to re-evaluate this relationship,” Bashir replied carefully. “All things considered. Why don’t we have our usual weekly lunch in my quarters instead of the replemat, and we can talk about it then. It’s not fair, keeping people who love you in the dark.”  
  
“Indeed,” Garak agreed. Was that the same flicker of discomfort Bashir had seen during their most recent conversation? Perhaps he was imagining things.  
  
“Well, I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, then.” Bashir and Garak exchanged brief nods, and Bashir turned to leave. Ziyal didn’t follow immediately.  
  
“My dear,” Bashir heard Garak saying quietly as he walked away. “I’m sorry if you feel that I have misled you—my relationship with Doctor Bashir isn’t always easy to define.”  
  
“You’re not calling him Julian anymore—and he’s not calling you Elim.”  
  
Bashir moved out of Garak’s line of sight once he was outside the shop, listening despite himself.  
  
“Are you two arguing?” Ziyal pressed.  
  
“Not exactly. The good doctor just hasn’t been the same man since my journey to the Gamma Quadrant. He’s of two minds when it comes to how he feels about me.”  
  
“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”  
  
Garak laughed softly. “Unfortunately, there’s… always the risk of that when it comes to sentiment.”  
  
Bashir almost laughed in spite of himself, and forced himself to head back to the infirmary, feeling vaguely sick in the head from all the ambiguity. He almost turned around and ran back to the shop to demand that Garak speak to him in private, immediately, so they could sort it all out and he wouldn’t have to wonder. The fact that a Changeling had impersonated the Chief Medical Officer wasn’t shared with guests on the station, and that included Ziyal. Bashir wondered if he should ask Major Kira and Captain Sisko about making an exception.  
  
But that decision would have to wait until after he knew the truth. And he still had about fifty hours before that would happen.

...

Twenty-two hours later, Bashir was desperate for distraction. His speculations about Garak’s relationship with the Changeling were playing out like a holonovel in his head whenever he let his mind wander, producing imagined connections between the implications of Ziyal’s worry and Garak’s every tiny action over the last week.  
  
He had just ordered lunch at Quark’s when someone came up behind him.  
  
“Oh, Doctor,” Jadzia groaned, plopping down on the stool next to him. “I think I broke a nail, look.”  
  
“I’m sorry, but it’s fatal,” Bashir said listlessly, sipping his raktajino.  
  
“So I take it things aren’t going so well with you and Garak.”  
  
“What makes you say that?” Bashir turned to look at her.  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” Dax shrugged with a quirky grin. “One minute you’re complaining because he doesn’t trust you, then Ziyal comes in, probably to ask for advice about how to win Garak’s heart, next thing I know you’re a walking raincloud. It’s not too hard to jump to conclusions.”  
  
“Very funny,” Bashir sighed. His voice went low and urgent. “While I was gone and the Changeling was here, did you ever notice me—I mean… it, him—acting unusual? I mean, around Garak?”  
  
“No, why?”  
  
“Oh, I dunno, I just wondered if… maybe… at least in hindsight, things were a little out of the ordinary between us. Them.”  
  
“Everything seemed the same to me.” But Dax was wearing the hint of a smirk. Bashir nearly glared at her suspiciously. “What’s that look for?” She smacked his arm.  
  
“Ow! Nothing.” He turned back to his food. “Maybe Garak’s paranoia is contagious.”  
  
“So was I right? Was that why Ziyal came to talk to you?”  
  
Bashir chewed, buying himself a few seconds to decide his answer. “Don’t tell anyone,” he whispered. “She was under the impression that Garak has feelings for me. Romantic feelings.” He had to tell someone or he’d burst.  
  
“Well?” Dax prodded, totally unfazed. “Did he say so to her? Have you asked him if it’s true?”  
  
“Jadzia—this is Garak we’re talking about. Even if it were true—and I doubt it—I don’t think he would admit it up front if I just walked up and _asked_ him! Especially with the way he’s been acting lately.”  
  
“So broody,” Dax teased, and Bashir realized how he must look, hunched over, clutching his raktajino with both hands. “It makes me wonder how you would react, if he ever did admit that he has feelings for you.”  
  
“Even if he said he did, I’m not sure I would believe it,” Bashir scoffed. “Did I ever tell you about the time he almost made me promise to eat an isolinear rod?”  
  
Dax barely managed to stifle the laughter that burst out of her. “You are so gullible!”  
  
“Thanks… I feel so much better now.”  
  
“Well is it so unbelievable?” She stared at him intently. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned after seven lifetimes, it’s that _love_ is completely unpredictable. It doesn’t have to make sense. And actually, I think this makes a _lot_ of sense. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Julian. Even Major Kira—”  
  
“Wait! Wait, just hold on a minute. You and Major Kira—you’ve been gossiping about me and _Garak?_ ”  
  
“It’s not gossip, we were just… making observations! We never did figure it out one way or the other.”  
  
“What do you mean ‘figure it out’? Figure what out? And how long have you been talking about us?”  
  
“A few years,” Dax said innocently. “Just me and Kira, no one else.”  
  
“What about Quark?” Bashir growled.  
  
“Well… Quark has his own theories about Garak.”  
  
“Like what?” Bashir hissed. “Does he have _theories_ about _me?_ ”  
  
“Calm down,” Dax coaxed.  
  
“I’m just his friend!” Bashir protested. “He just likes me because I talk a lot and we can discuss books over… spice pudding and… solve mysteries in the holosuites and he hasn’t got anyone else except Ziyal….” He trailed off, wondering for half a second if the reason Garak wasn’t interested in Ziyal was because—  
  
“And…?” Dax looked at him seriously. “He’s a very lonely person, Julian… and you’re a young, attractive, talkative man who’s naïve enough to trust him, and bright enough to keep up with him in a philosophical debate.”  
  
“This is all pointless, anyway,” Bashir said nervously. “You don’t know him. He’s not interested in that kind of relationship with anyone, not even Ziyal—and he’ll barely even acknowledge we’re friends because he thinks ‘sentiment is the greatest weakness of all’… or however it was he put it….”  
  
“What’s the harm in asking him how he feels?”  
  
“It won’t work. Anyway, Ziyal’s probably just… confused because of the Changeling infiltrator. She doesn’t know that it wasn’t me who was spending all that time with Garak last month. Maybe she just got the wrong idea.”  
  
“Maybe… or _maybe_ the Changeling saw something you couldn’t see.” Dax slid off her stool and patted his back, leaning close to whisper one last thing. “Take my advice. Confront him again. And while you’re at it, why don’t you ask yourself the same questions? Let me know how it turns out.” She clapped a hand on his shoulder hard and walked away.

...

His distraction finally came while he was playing darts with Chief O’Brien. It felt odd—he thought he ought to tell Miles what was going on, but there was no way he could bring it up out of the blue. Bashir felt awkward just thinking about how _that_ conversation would go.  
  
Then, Doctor Lewis Zimmerman showed up with an offer at “immortality”—one thing led to another and suddenly he was buried under endless questionnaires. Zimmerman had just dropped by Bashir’s quarters to check on his progress.  
  
“I feel like I’m back at the Academy,” he groaned, stretching a sore muscle in his neck after he handed another completed questionnaire to Zimmerman. “Is it really necessary for me to write opinion essays on all these topics? I mean, who’s going to ask a medical hologram about some obscure music artist of the late 22nd century? Or about—what was it—how many dreams I’ve had involving teeth?”  
  
“The program must be prepared for _every_ contingency,” Zimmerman said in his usual slightly disdainful tone. “You never know when you’ll be stuck with a hysterical patient who can only be brought to his senses by finding he shares a common interest or experience with his doctor—or else distracted from agony because of the surprising blandness of his doctor’s nightmares and musical tastes.”  
  
“I see… well, I suppose I’d better finish up—” He was cut off by the door chime. “Come in.”  
  
The door opened. Garak took half a step forward and paused, noticing Zimmerman.  
  
“Have I come at a bad time?” he asked.  
  
“Oh, it’s lunchtime already!” Bashir cried, setting down the datapad. “I almost forgot. Doctor Zimmerman, this is… Garak, a friend of mine; I promised him we’d have lunch together today, catch up on a few things. Garak, this is Lewis Zimmerman. He’s an expert on holographic imaging and programming, and he’s using me as a template for a new long-term medical hologram.”  
  
“How exciting for you, Doctor!” Garak said graciously, his eyes darting around, no doubt picking up on all the subtleties of the scene. “It must be quite an honor.”  
  
“Yes… it is,” Bashir said distractedly. “Um, Doctor Zimmerman, could you excuse us?”  
  
“That won’t be possible.” Zimmerman eyed Garak critically—it seemed to be his default expression. “ _I_ was going to take you to lunch and take detailed notes on your mannerisms. But… this should work. Don’t mind me—I’ll just be in the background.”  
  
Bashir tried not to sound too exasperated. “Are you planning on programming this hologram to have lunch with people?”  
  
Doctor Zimmerman looked offended at Bashir’s tone of voice, and Garak broke in before he could speak. “Oh, don’t worry, Doctor, I’m sure we can ‘catch up’ later. You seem to be quite busy, and besides… I just remembered I have an order of specialty garments for Morn that I should start designing immediately!”  
  
“Are you sure our conversation can wait?” Bashir frowned.  
  
“Quite sure. Doctor Zimmerman… a pleasure.” Garak nodded and smiled at Zimmerman, then turned and left the room, leaving Bashir feeling oddly abandoned.  
  
“So… where were we? Ah yes—lunch.” Zimmerman’s voice dripped sarcasm. “We can go to that _charming_ Ferengi establishment on the promenade.”

...

When Garak sat down in front of Zimmerman, it had already been nearly a week since his last conversation with Bashir.  
  
“Make yourself comfortable,” Zimmerman said, somehow managing to sound impatient even so. “Depending on your answers, we may be in here a while.”  
  
“I understand you’re gathering information about Doctor Bashir in _extreme_ detail,” Garak said curiously.  
  
“Yes. I am constructing a complete psychological profile; therefore I would ask you to _please_ make your answers as detailed, precise, and honest as possible.” Zimmerman was already looking at his datapad, his tone of voice bored—well, he had probably repeated that exact phrase to the dozen or so people who had gone in before Garak. It had been a long wait out in the corridor.  
  
“I’ll do my best,” Garak said brightly, thinking that certain levels of honesty were beyond the realm of possibility for him.  
  
“Nothing you say during this interview will be told to Doctor Bashir, but it may be incorporated into the behavioral patterns of the LMH.”  
  
“I understand.”  
  
“Well then… let’s begin. What was your first impression of him—good and bad?”  
  
“Ah… yes,” Garak said thoughtfully, overdoing the reminiscent quality in his tone. “He was sitting by himself in the replemat, the first time we met—a young, wide-eyed, _beautiful_ man… like a lost child _staring_ around at all the wonders of the station! He was very naïve and _very_ idealistic, but it was easy to forgive his arrogance. He has such a sweet smile and a remarkably attractive disposition, after all.”  
  
Zimmerman slowly looked up from his datapad, finally seeming to take a good look at Garak.  
  
“I understand you normally have lunch together once a week. When did this start?”  
  
“From the first day we met, of course!” Garak beamed, allowing himself to enjoy this. “How could I resist such a raw zest for life? We talked every week, on all sorts of topics, from the history of various military uniforms to the great works of Human and Cardassian literature… religion, the arts—oh we’ve had some incredible debates about ethics!”  
  
“Have these meetings been discontinued?”  
  
“Only postponed. He is busy working with you, after all.”  
  
“I see.” Zimmerman had the same sort of constantly creasing forehead as Bashir. Perhaps it was common for human doctors to furrow their brows to such an extent. “So I’m supposed to believe it was his innocent beauty and… zestiness… which initially lured you in, and inspired you to approach him?”  
  
“Precisely! I’ve tried to gently mold him to become more aware of the harsh realities of the universe, and he has become much more capable of _watching out_ for himself….” Garak raised his eyebrows suggestively. “But frankly, I still worry about him sometimes. He simply doesn’t know the kind of effect he has on… some people.”  
  
“Are you implying he unconsciously welcomes the advances of sexual predators?”  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t put it like that,” Garak laughed, then suddenly sobered. “But I suppose if he treats other men the way he treats me, it’s a definite possibility.”  
  
“Could you elaborate on that?” Zimmerman asked. He looked as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.  
  
“It’s nothing blatant, Doctor. Like I said, he doesn’t know what he’s doing—but his eyes take on this very specific intensity which … _draws_ you _in_ ….” Garak lowered his voice gradually for dramatic effect, leaning across the table toward Zimmerman. “And he speaks… in this _soft, smooth_ voice which could even soothe the most cantankerous of temperaments… and _just_ when you start to feel as if you could drown in those eyes… they light up!” He motioned with a hand and sat back in his seat. “And he’s a brash child again. He could talk for hours on end without losing any of his enthusiasm, just because he was _struck_ with a _fascinating_ new idea.”  
  
“Mesmerizing,” Zimmerman said in a flat voice. “Have you noticed him behaving in this way toward women, such as—” he checked his datapad— “Jadzia Dax… or this… ‘Leeta’ who works at Quark’s?”  
  
“I couldn’t say. I’ve had few encounters with him when he’s entertaining his female companions. But I imagine it’s more common for him to behave that way toward someone he sees as an intellectual equal—or superior, I suppose.”  
  
“How would you define your relationship with Doctor Bashir?”  
  
“I consider him a very dear friend,” Garak said quietly. “But for the most part, our intercourse has been purely intellectual.”  
  
“For the most part.” Zimmerman raised an eyebrow at his datapad, constantly taking notes. “Have you had other kinds of… intercourse… outside of your usual lunchtime discussion? Any interactions that could be construed as romantic or sexual in nature?”  
  
“Certainly not sexual!” Garak laughed. “At least… not yet. And probably not even romantic in the strictest sense. We _have_ spent some time in the holosuites—” Zimmerman’s other eyebrow rose— “but the programs we’ve played aren’t exactly romantic dramas. Mystery, or suspense, yes—not the usual luxurious debauchery that Quark has to offer.” Garak paused a moment, letting Zimmerman catch up on his notes before continuing. “Apart from that, we’ve found ourselves in a few tight spots together, and had some almost … tender moments. He can be very nurturing to his patients.”  
  
Zimmerman straightened in his seat. “Tell me more about these ‘tender moments’.”  
  
“Well…!” Garak took a deep breath and put on a thoughtful look. “Once, I was suffering withdrawals from a nasty addiction, and the good doctor stayed with me for several days as I recovered. Then, more recently, I very much appreciated his comforting touch as I recovered from psychological trauma I sustained in a prison camp in the Gamma Quadrant.” He smiled slyly. “But I shouldn’t say too much about either of those times—doctor-patient confidentiality, after all.”  
  
“That’s alright, I… think I get the idea.” Zimmerman’s eyebrows finally descended back into their normal position. “What did you say your occupation was again?”  
  
“I run a tailor shop on the promenade. I have for several years, now—since before the station was handed over to the Federation.”  
  
“And before that?”  
  
“I was a gardener. I specialized in Edosian Orchids—have you ever seen an Edosian Orchid, Doctor Zimmerman?”  
  
“No,” Zimmerman said bluntly. “Mister Garak, did Doctor Bashir employ this soothing tone and intense gaze, which you previously described, while he was tending to you as your physician?”  
  
“Of course! Every time I find myself in the infirmary, he’s sure to use one or the other, usually interspersing it with the occasional teasing remark. He’s finally learning the art of sarcasm, and it’s really quite charming.”  
  
“Can you give me an example of a typical conversation in such a situation?”  
  
“Well, let me think….” Garak tilted his head with an amused look. “Although—I want to be sure that if for any reason he asks, you won’t give him any way of tracing these words back to me.”  
  
“The contents of this interview, including whose comments inspired certain personality subroutines in the final LMH program, are strictly confidential. However, Doctor Bashir might be able to infer certain things by process of elimination.”  
  
“I see. Well… I suppose I’ll have to take that risk.” Garak paused a moment, thinking, then plunged into full storytelling mode. “One day, I walked into the infirmary complaining of a headache. I suffer from them fairly often, so it was no surprise to Doctor Bashir. Still, he put his arm around my shoulders and led me to the examination table. ‘Why, Mister Garak,’ he said, ‘You’re not looking your usual handsome self today… that simply won’t do. We’d better get you patched up!’ To which I said, ‘Ah, Doctor, perhaps you should get your eyes examined. I look the same as I did last night.’ By then,” Garak went on, changing his tone of voice whenever appropriate, “I was sitting on the examination table and the Doctor said to me in a voice like silk, ‘Why don’t you lie down… and let me have a good look at you.’ And he looked at me, _staring_ , with those dark, _hypnotizing_ eyes, and how could I refuse? So I let him examine me—is something wrong, Doctor Zimmerman?”  
  
Zimmerman, who had been staring at Garak with an expression that was simultaneously entranced and uneasy, jerked as if waking up. “Oh, no, please… continue….”  
  
“He examined my head, and of course, nothing was particularly out of the ordinary. First, he said, in that same voice, ‘I _know_ it must hurt, and I wish there were something more I could do to ease your pain, but if you’ll just take your medicine, I can rest easy knowing you’re alright. You can contact me any time if it gets worse.’ And then, after he’d finished his examination, he leaned close, gazing so _attentively_ at my head, and then, into my eyes, and he said, ‘I’ve just noticed something.’ I said, ‘What is it, Doctor? Has something gone wrong?’ and he said ‘I’m sorry… I don’t want to tell you this… but your head….’ I said ‘What? What is it? _Tell_ me, Doctor, I need to know!’ And he whispered… ‘It’s deadly. You have the most stunningly gorgeous scales I have _ever_ seen.’“  
  
Garak had been leaning across the table, gradually, as he told his story, and Doctor Zimmerman had been leaning forward too, inevitably drawn closer as Garak’s voice had gone softer and softer with intensity. For a moment, Zimmerman squinted at Garak, then he “hmph”ed and sat back.  
  
“And you would call this a… _typical_ conversation?” His voice was skeptical.  
  
“Oh yes!” Garak said proudly.  
  
“Are you sure your memory of these details is accurate?”  
  
“I’m not sure if you’re aware, Doctor Zimmerman, but on Cardassia, children are trained to have excellent memories, and I must say my attention to detail has been sharpened even further throughout the years of my career.”  
  
“So that wasn’t some sort of joke?” Zimmerman’s eyes were narrowed. “It’s a true story?”  
  
Garak smiled and sat back, hands clasped. “Every word.”  
  
Zimmerman took some notes, and then hesitated for a moment.  
  
“What happened next? How did you respond to Doctor Bashir’s comment?”  
  
A grin crept over Garak’s face.

...

Sleep hadn’t been coming easy to Bashir. A week and a half into the project with Zimmerman, and he was being mocked in his dreams by the image of his holographic double repeatedly walking into a wall with a vacant look on its face.  
  
Then, days later, he had been invited to critique the LMH’s bedside manner. It had taken a while for someone to show up with an injury to test it. Ensign McCombs had suffered plasma burns to the face and neck while helping to repair a crucial system in Ops. Bashir grudgingly stood back and watched his holographic doppelganger step forward.  
  
“Ooh, those look pretty bad,” the LMH said softly, tilting the Ensign’s head up with one hand and looking at the burns. It pulled out a hypospray and leaned close to the confused and uncomfortable man’s face as it was discharged. “There,” the LMH crooned. “That should make you feel better. Now let’s just have you lie down over here and I can start restoring this otherwise scintillatingly perfect skin of yours.”  
  
Ensign McCombs stiffened as the LMH stroked a thumb down the side of his face. “Is this some kind of joke?”  
  
“Very good, Ensign,” the LMH smiled, suddenly swaggering. “Laughter is good for the heart. Although I do admire your excessively flawless epidermis.”  
  
“Computer, freeze program!” Bashir turned disgustedly to Zimmerman. “Very funny, but I don’t have time for this nonsense—I have a patient who needs medical care.” He jerked the dermal regenerator out of the LMH’s motionless hand and began using it on the worst damage. “Sorry about that, Ensign.”  
  
“Is _that_ going to be a part of the program?” McCombs asked uncomfortably. “Or was it really just a one-time joke?”  
  
“It’s no joke,” Zimmerman said smugly. “I’ve merely incorporated some of the data I’ve collected through my observations and interviews with those who know Doctor Bashir.”  
  
“What data?” Bashir blurted. “Who said that I act like that toward my patients? And what’s with that smug, seductive smirk and the… the bedroom eyes? Obviously someone’s having a good laugh at my expense! I bet it’s Jadzia….”  
  
“No need to be so sensitive,” Zimmerman muttered, rolling his eyes. “After all, you were complaining that the eyes were too blank last time.”  
  
“So this _was_ your idea!”  
  
“I’m afraid not. As I said before, I’ve merely incorporated data from the interviews.”  
  
“Which, conveniently enough, are confidential!” Bashir growled. “I _don’t_ act like that. Well, I have been told I have a good bedside manner, but this is ridiculous!”  
  
“Say what you will—the data may be incomplete for now, but what has been programmed into the LMH is as close an approximation to reality as is possible at this point.”  
  
Bashir glared at the LMH, which was frozen in the same suggestive posture and expression it had assumed during its interaction with Ensign McCombs, who was still looking at Bashir with anxiety.  
  
“Are you done with my burns, Doctor, or should I return to duty like this?” he asked hesitantly.  
  
“Sorry—right—of course not. Let’s finish up this treatment.”  
  
His annoyance with Zimmerman only increased from that point on. But that incident was nothing compared to his parents’ arrival on the station several days later. Ever since they’d shown up, he hadn’t been able to get away from either of them, or from Zimmerman—darts or James Bond night with O’Brien was out because the Chief was working overtime helping Zimmerman fix technical bugs.  
  
“I’ve told you before—I can’t have you hanging around in the infirmary while I’m working!” Bashir tried to keep his voice calm as he addressed his mother, Amsha.  
  
“But Captain Sisko told Richard and I that you didn’t have to work for now unless there is a real emergency. Come with us, Jules! Your father wants to explore the holosuites, get ideas for some of his projects; we could even have a family picnic together!”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“Why not?” Amsha demanded. “You’re not busy now.”  
  
“Look,” Bashir said, barely able to keep his tone civil. “We already tried having a nice family dinner, last night, and it didn’t work. I don’t have anything more to say.”  
  
“But we _need_ to talk, Jules,” Amsha whispered. “I’ve talked to your father—”  
  
“No! I’m sorry. I’m not coming. I’ve got things to discuss with Doctor Zimmerman.”  
  
He brushed past her before she could say anything else, and stalked off, heading for Quark’s on a whim. Disappearing into the holosuite for a couple of hours seemed like a very good idea right about now. He could let out his frustration in one of the battle programs he and Miles had been playing with before this all started.  
  
He didn’t get three steps in before catching sight of Zimmerman hanging out near the dabo wheels, watching Leeta. Just when he thought he couldn’t be any angrier with his fellow doctor! Bashir stood and stared a second too long, and Zimmerman turned, catching sight of him.  
  
In a moment, Bashir saw Zimmerman rise and head toward him. He turned on a dime, rushing out into the crowded promenade. He had to get away and hide somewhere— right now, he couldn’t stand being in the same room with anyone involved with the LMH project.  
  
Before he knew it, he was standing in front of a door and had hit the chime, unable to think immediately of whose quarters were behind it.  
  
It opened, and Garak stared at him, startled.  
  
“Doctor! What brings you here so early in the morning?”  
  
For a moment, Bashir hesitated, suddenly remembering the other reason he’d been missing lunch with Garak lately—but this was so much worse.  
  
“Garak, can I come in?”  
  
“Of course!” Garak stepped back and ushered him inside, still looking slightly surprised.  
  
“Thank you!” Bashir cried once the doors had closed, collapsing heavily into a seat and putting his hands over his face. “At last, some peace and quiet!”  
  
“I take it Doctor Zimmerman’s project is no longer as exciting as it once was,” Garak said, offering him a steaming mug of Tarkalean Tea—Bashir hadn’t even noticed him going to the replicator.  
  
“Thank you.” He took a long sip before leaning his head back against the wall with a sigh. “No… it’s not the project. It’s Zimmerman. He hasn’t exactly endeared himself to me this past week. He brought my _parents_ onto the station, when I specifically asked him not to get them involved!”  
  
“Your parents?” Garak asked curiously, pulling up a seat for himself across from Bashir.  
  
“Yes,” Bashir said heavily. “My parents….”  
  
“I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned your parents before, at least not to me.”  
  
“Why would I? I haven’t even really mentioned them to Leeta, and we were dating.”  
  
“I see,” Garak said. “Speaking of… ‘dating’… I suppose this isn’t the ideal time or place to re-evaluate our own relationship…?”  
  
Bashir was suddenly on his feet again. “Yes! About that! There’s a lot you failed to mention, isn’t there, Garak? All you said was that the Changeling tried to use our relationship to get information about Cardassia! But what exactly does that mean? What kind of relationship are we talking about?”  
  
“It hardly got very far,” Garak said briskly. “The Changeling convinced me that he had a romantic interest in me and wanted to pursue a relationship. After giving it some thought, I allowed it to become a possibility, but before it was even really on its way to becoming anything substantial, I received the transmission from Tain! So now you know, Doctor. I’m sorry if my attempt to avoid embarrassment has offended you.”  
  
“Well, what did he say? The Changeling? What could he have said that convinced you to act so much like you were in love with him that Ziyal would bet her life you were in love with _me?_ ”  
  
Garak paused, frozen for a moment. “I hardly think you should judge what happened through Ziyal’s perspective, Doctor, I _certainly_ —”  
  
“Answer me, Garak!” Bashir yelled. “A straight, honest answer, or are you incapable of even telling me why you played at something so ridiculous?”  
  
Garak looked a little stunned, but just then the door chime went off. He turned away from Bashir. “Who is it?” Garak called.  
  
“It’s Doctor Zimmerman!” came the oh-so-cheery call from the other side of the door.  
  
Bashir lurched forward and grabbed Garak’s arm. “I don’t want to talk to him!” he whispered urgently.  
  
“Move, hurry,” Garak whispered back, then raised his voice and called, “Just a moment, Doctor!” He pushed Bashir forward by the shoulders, shepherding him into his bedroom. Garak shut the door, and Bashir found himself in darkness. He pressed his ear against the door.  
  
“Come in, Doctor Zimmerman—to what do I owe this surprise visit?”  
  
Zimmerman’s voice was unmistakable. “Well… apparently Doctor Bashir wasn’t entirely pleased with the modifications I made to the LMH program. I incorporated some additional data and I would like to show him the results, but he’s nowhere to be found.”  
  
“That’s a shame,” Garak replied. “Have you tried his quarters?”  
  
“No… because oddly enough, I thought I heard his voice coming from in here.”  
  
“I beg your pardon, Doctor, but is it really necessary for you to search my quarters? I hope you’ll forgive me saying so, but you are certainly not a security officer!”  
  
There was a pause. “Of course… my apologies. Do you have any idea where I might find him?”  
  
“Well, he could be anywhere! If he’s not in the infirmary or his quarters, the next place I would look would be at Quark’s. Then again, he might be in a meeting with Captain Sisko, or running an errand of some kind.”  
  
“I see… I was almost positive I heard his voice coming from here.”  
  
“The couple next door seemed to be having an argument a moment ago—not all that surprising, to be honest. One hears all sorts of things if the neighbors raise their voices.”  
  
“But I could have sworn I heard someone yelling your name.”  
  
“There are a lot of names that sound like mine, even average human names—Derek, Gareth, Eric… and you know, I _think_ there’s a Vulcan a few doors down….”  
  
“What were you doing before I came in?”  
  
“Just… sitting down with a cup of Tarkalean Tea,” Garak said innocently. “I was just thinking I should make some changes to the design of that swimsuit I promised I would make for Morn. I can show you if you like!”  
  
“That won’t be necessary. Tarkalean Tea… that’s one of Doctor Bashir’s favorite beverages.”  
  
“I think you’ll find we’ve come to share some similar preferences over the years we’ve known each other.”  
  
“I see….”  
  
“Anything else you’d like to ask?”  
  
“No… I had better get back to the lab. Chief O’Brien and I have a few more things to discuss—perhaps Doctor Bashir will turn up on his own.”  
  
“I’m sure you won’t have long to wait.”  
  
There was a distant whooshing of the door, and a silence. Bashir was content to wait a few minutes, but before he’d heard any sound of Garak’s approach, the door to the bedroom was opening and Garak had come in and shut it behind him.  
  
“I think we had better continue our conversation here, Doctor,” Garak said. “In case we have any more unexpected visitors.”  
  
“Alright,” Bashir said, exhaling tensely. “Good. I don’t suppose we could turn on a light?”  
  
“That can be arranged,” Garak said. “Computer, restore lighting to usual levels.”  
  
The lights came on, but dimly, so that the room seemed full of shadows. Bashir looked around; it was a simple room, nothing too out of the ordinary, but in this lighting it was easy to project an air of mystery onto a painting on the wall, or a plant in the corner.  
  
“So, Doctor. You were saying?” Garak turned to face him, impassive.  
  
“Right… what was I saying?” Bashir struggled to return to what he’d been thinking before Zimmerman had interrupted.  
  
“You can’t think of any credible reason for me to accept the Changeling’s offer.”  
  
“Well... now that I think about it, you enjoy deception. I suppose this sort of constant act isn’t beyond your capabilities. But why take the bait, if you knew there was a chance he just wanted to use you as a source of information? You said so yourself—you didn’t know.”  
  
“I had my suspicions, as always, Doctor,” Garak said coldly. “But is that so shocking? After all this time, with you constantly nagging me to trust you, is it so surprising that eventually, I would decide it was time to give it a try?”  
  
“But—”  
  
“I _trusted_ you, Doctor,” Garak said slowly, coming closer in the dim light. “Or at least… the person I thought was you. And suddenly, you’re angry because I did what I thought you wanted me to do.”  
  
“But,” Bashir spluttered, “but even if I did tell you I wanted a romantic relationship, why would you just accept if you didn’t really feel the same way? How is that supposed to make me feel—how do I know you’re not just doing things because they’re what you think I want—how can I trust that _anything_ you do isn’t just some kind of… manipulation?!”  
  
“Manipulation?” Garak whispered. “To what end? What _exactly_ do you think I want from you, Doctor? You seem to have all kinds of suspicions about me, and I’m beginning to think that none of them are close to the truth.”  
  
“I don’t know!” Bashir threw up his hands desperately. “How am _I_ supposed to decide? You hold on to your little secrets so stubbornly—I did think you trusted me when we were captured by the Jem’Hadar, but now it’s like all _that_ never happened!” He frowned at Garak. “I can’t help but wonder… sometimes it’s like you can’t _bear_ the thought of being close to anyone.”  
  
“Then why do you think I pursued this relationship?” Garak said softly. “ _Why_ do you _think_ I was fooled by that Changeling? It’s not something I’m proud of, Doctor. My blind sentiment could have resulted in the destruction of this entire sector… perhaps even the entire Alpha Quadrant.” He stepped away from Bashir, moving to stare out the window, silhouetted against the lighter darkness of the stars. “Once again, I see, we don’t understand each other as well I as thought we did.”  
  
Bashir stared at his back, conflicted and still barely able to believe he was having this conversation. But as he continued to stare, suddenly all he could see was the same Garak from barracks six, full of shame, unwilling to admit his own hurt and disappointment.  
  
“Garak,” he said, softly. “Look… I’m sorry. I suppose I was just a little frustrated, that’s all… maybe I _don’t_ understand you as well as I should. But it’s hard when you only give me little bits and pieces of who you are.”  
  
“If I gave you everything,” Garak said, in a voice trembling with bitter laughter, “I doubt you would be grateful.”  
  
“You’ve told me so many stories about yourself since I first asked why you were exiled,” Bashir pressed on stubbornly. “And I still don’t know if any of them are true. But they could all be true, even the worst you could come up with to scare me away, and it wouldn’t matter.”  
  
Garak was silent for a moment, his head bowed slightly. Then he took a deep breath. “Even the stories Ziyal has been telling you?”  
  
“The problem with anyone’s stories about you, Garak, including your own, is that nobody really knows why you do the things you do.”  
  
“Precisely, Doctor. And even if I did explain, no one would understand.”  
  
Bashir hesitated, still staring at Garak, unable to see much more than the outline of his face. He reached out and put a hand on Garak’s shoulder.  
  
“Garak,” he whispered, coming closer so he could see the frozen look on Garak’s face. “You’re one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. It shouldn’t be too hard for you to realize that most of the time, when I’m angry with you, it’s because you’re acting like I don’t care, or I shouldn’t care, or you’re not going to let me do anything to help you. But you should know me well enough by now to realize… that….”  
  
“Yes?” Garak prodded reluctantly, when Bashir failed to finish.  
  
“That… I dunno… nevermind.” Bashir blew out a sigh, feeling lost. “Do you even consider me a friend? I know I’ve asked this before, but—”  
  
“Apparently, you were right, Doctor.”  
  
“What? Right about what?”  
  
“The moral of that story,” Garak said, with a tight laugh. “The boy who cried wolf.”  
  
Bashir blinked, caught off guard by the reference.  
  
Garak took a deep breath and went on. “Even when I’m telling the truth, there’s still doubt in your mind, a shadow… of fear… that maybe, you’re being a fool to trust me. I suppose I should be proud—after all, you never would have become so skeptical without my influence.”  
  
Bashir just stared, not knowing what to say.  
  
Garak finally turned to face him, the ridges around his eyes casting deep shadows as he smiled. “My dear doctor… remind me. What did you say the boy’s original motive was for lying about the wolf?”  
  
Bashir saw Garak take another deep breath and swallow, and his mind went blank.  
  
“Um… well, he….”  
  
“O’Brien to Bashir,” a voice from his comm. badge interrupted.  
  
Bashir paused, not wanting to answer it—suddenly remembering what he had come here to escape in the first place.  
  
“Julian? Are you there? It’s urgent.”  
  
“What is it?” Bashir finally responded, still locked in a staring match with Garak.  
  
“You better come down to the infirmary.” O’Brien’s voice sounded nervous. “Your parents were just in here and they… said some things. It’s hard to explain—just get down here as soon as you can.”  
  
Bashir felt his hands go icy. “Oh no,” he breathed.  
  
“What?” Garak whispered. “What is it?”  
  
“I’ve got to go—right now—!” Bashir rushed to open the door, feeling numb.  
  
“Doctor, what—”  
  
“Stay here!” Bashir yelled, pointing commandingly at Garak from the main room. “Or at least—stay away from the infirmary! I’m sorry, I don’t have time to explain.”  
  
He rushed out, leaving Garak standing in the shadows of his bedroom doorway.


	9. That Deadly Sweetness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place mostly during 5x19 with a few lines taken directly from the episode. Hope you enjoy!

“Rokassa juice,” Garak said to the replicator, and sat down on the edge of his window, hoping the drink would calm him as it usually did. He barely tasted it. How many times had he stared out this window, kept awake at night by his longing to get off this station, to be anywhere but here? And somewhere in the Gamma Quadrant was a hunk of rock, on which he had discovered that, for a moment at least, this station was the only place he wanted to be.  
  
“One foot in sea and one on shore,” he said to himself under his breath. “To one thing constant, never.” He allowed himself a nervous chuckle. More Shakespeare. What was his mind coming to?  
  
For a bitter moment, he considered the possibility that Bashir’s concern for his emotional state was justified. But no. If he had survived this long, he could deal with a little loss, a little regret and disappointment. Thoughts continued to flit lightly across his mind.  
  
 _Tain was head of the Obsidian Order for twenty years; if he can survive that, he can survive anything._  
  
Except he hadn’t survived. Done in by a faulty, tired heart. Garak only hoped that such a defect hadn’t been passed to him, but deep down he knew that in a poetic sense, it already had. The irony of life never ceased.  
  
He would be ready if and when Bashir chose to resume their conversation. Garak knew his foolish sentiments would not be returned—were not even fully understood by the doctor. And he wasn’t about to open himself to such a weakness again. 

...

Bashir threw the dart straight into the middle of the board. It joined the other four he’d managed to land from his handicapped position several feet behind O’Brien.  
  
Garak burst into applause. “Amazing! _Absolutely_ impressive, Doctor!”  
  
Both O’Brien and Bashir whirled on the spot to stare at him, giving him half a moment to savor the sight. It had been too long since he had last seen the doctor.  
  
“Garak?” O’Brien blurted. “What’re you doing here?” His chubby oval face was particularly suited to looks of surprise, Garak thought to himself.  
  
“Yes, what are you doing here, Garak?” Bashir asked in his predictably territorial way.  
  
Garak clasped his hands behind his back with an innocent look. “Well!” he huffed. “I apologize! If I had only known I wasn’t welcome at Quark’s at this particular time, I would’ve ignored my random craving for a small glass of kanar.”  
  
“Eh… right,” O’Brien said. “You just startled us, that’s all. We didn’t realize we were being _watched_.” He gave Garak a suspicious look.  
  
“Oh just ignore him,” Bashir said, bouncing on the balls of his feet impatiently. “We’re almost done with this game!”  
  
“What d’you mean, we’re almost done with this game?” O’Brien said in a resigned way. “Looks to me like you’ve already won. I’m going to have to start making you stand on the balcony over there. You want to give it a try, Garak? See if you can beat him?” The chief waved a dart in his direction.  
  
“Ah-thank you, Chief, but I’d _hate_ to interrupt.” Garak held up his hands with an amused look. “You go ahead.”  
  
O’Brien threw the last dart, which hit the outer circle of the board, and swung his arms back and forth with a defeated sigh.  
  
“Ah well, I’d better head off—last time I left at this time, I was late for dinner. Keiko nearly had kittens.”  
  
“You’re exaggerating,” Bashir grinned knowingly, but patted O’Brien on the back goodbye.  
  
“But he wasn’t exaggerating about your aim,” Garak murmured near the doctor’s ear once O’Brien was out of earshot. Bashir turned to face him with a grim, resigned smile.  
  
“I didn’t realize you were in the habit of coming to Quark’s.”  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t call it a habit… not like our weekly lunches were,” Garak said. “But Quark and I have a bit of an understanding. We both know the value of information.”  
  
“Well I don’t think this was random at all. I think you timed this,” Bashir said keenly, “so you could catch me just before Miles had to go home for dinner. You knew I wasn’t going back to the infirmary after this, didn’t you?”  
  
“Your belief in my omniscience is incredibly flattering,” Garak laughed. “I’m glad you realize how much I enjoy your company, Doctor.” Garak set a hand on Bashir’s back and subtly steered him away from the bar. “But perhaps _that_ would be going a bit too far.”  
  
“Omniscience,” Bashir muttered to himself, and Garak thought he might be laughing under his breath. “So this really was a coincidence, you showing up at the end of our game? Or are you saying you came here for information from Quark?”  
  
“Close, but not quite. Actually, I came here to _confirm_ some information I heard from Quark. And it seems… it has been confirmed.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Bashir’s brow furrowed as he suddenly found himself sitting down at a table in the corner.  
  
“I told myself it might only be a rumor.” Garak let his tone go soft and contemplative as he unfolded the napkin on the table as if settling in for a full meal. “But you know… it all makes a certain amount of sense. Once again, you’re simply too good to be true, Doctor.” He blinked wide-eyed at Bashir as if the doctor were something curious he’d dug up at the beach.  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bashir’s voice went low. “Is that it? We haven’t seen each other for _weeks_ and you show up just to accuse me of something?”  
  
“I assumed you were avoiding me because you didn’t want to face my _inevitable_ admiration for your skills of deception. After all, it takes a very good liar to keep a secret like that for… what was it? Twenty years? Or more?” Garak spread his hands.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bashir deflected. “I assumed you were avoiding me because the last time we talked, you came very close to actually telling the truth, and you couldn’t bear the shame of having to finish! I was giving you the emotional distance you wanted so badly, while you nursed your wounded pride back to health.”  
  
“My dear doctor!” Garak exclaimed, over-enunciating each word in the short phrase and grinning over his own discomfort. “I wasn’t avoiding you at all! I assumed that if you wished to resume our conversation, you would seek me out, but I certainly didn’t want to interrupt whatever dreadful business had called you away in such a hurry. I think I know better than to pry into private family matters.”  
  
Ah, there it was—Bashir definitely laughed under his breath that time. Garak tried to ignore how much that pleased him.  
  
“Well,” said Bashir, “I assumed it would be better to leave the ball in your court, so to speak. You seemed a little bit uncomfortable at the end of our last conversation and I didn’t want to push it.”  
  
“Not at all, Doctor, not at all,” Garak said. “So, it seems we’ve been tiptoeing around one another for no reason at all! Unless—” he dropped his voice to a whisper “—you really are uncomfortable with your genetic background.”  
  
“How did you find out about that?” Bashir sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”  
  
“As I said, Quark and I have an understanding. He happened to observe one of your games of darts with the Chief and overheard a few things about the enhancements to your hand-eye coordination. He was only too happy to share it with me over a glass of kanar. But really, no, you shouldn’t be surprised. Do you expect that information to stay hidden from the rest of the crew? You’re not exactly taking great pains to conceal it any longer, and the only reason Quark hasn’t told every single one of his patrons is because he’s under some illusion that he can convince people to bet against you in games of racquetball!”  
  
“I was wondering why he’d suddenly started talking about charity matches again.” Bashir shook his head with a longsuffering look. “I suppose you want to congratulate me or something.”  
  
“On what, exactly?” Garak raised his eyebrows.  
  
“Well, you act like I’m your protégé…. Learning how to face the ‘real world’ with lies and deceit—you must be very proud of me.” The wry, slightly terse tone to Bashir’s voice made Garak pause for a moment, oddly pleased at how well he knew Bashir. It was what he’d been counting on.  
  
“Ah, yes, you should be proud!” Garak pressed. “You know, I was wrong about you—all this time I thought you were incapable of consciously, purposely lying, but in fact you’ve been doing it so long that it’s become second nature to you, hasn’t it? Pretending to be something you’re not, _pretending_ to be normal. Tell me, Doctor… is your oblivious innocence also part of the act? Are you really a shrewd, calculating genius underneath that boyish smile?”  
  
“Stop it, Garak!” Bashir snapped. “I’m not proud of it!”  
  
“But why not?” Garak pushed on, excited. “It’s gotten you where you are today, hasn’t it? Where would you be if not for that lie? Where would your patients be? You realized, didn’t you, at some point—that you _had_ to lie! You had to break the rules because there was something much more important for you to do with your life than resign yourself to some…mundane, mediocre, meaningless existence! And you’re _glad_ you did! You would have lost everything, otherwise.”  
  
“I nearly lost everything anyway! My father’s in prison because of me,” Bashir breathed agitatedly, nearly glaring at Garak. “I was _this close_ to resigning my commission.”  
  
“Was it _your_ idea to become genetically enhanced?”  
  
“ _No_ , of course not!” Bashir cried, a bit loudly, and lowered his voice again. “My parents took me when I was too young to even realize what was going on.”  
  
“Then justice has been served. Your parents are the ones who should be punished—it was their choice to break the law. You should hardly be the one who suffers for that.”  
  
Bashir opened his mouth, then paused and took a deep breath, his eyes shifting around the room uncomfortably. He pretended to watch the dabo girls for a few minutes. When he spoke again it was in a subdued tone. “Well… I don’t really want to discuss it if that’s alright with you. But I’m sorry for avoiding you, especially after leaving our last conversation hanging like that.”  
  
“That’s quite alright, Doctor,” Garak said. Then, after a pause, he smiled slightly and added: “There’s nothing that needs to be discussed.”  
  
Bashir frowned, looking almost worried for a moment. “Are you sure? I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said, and—”  
  
“Quite sure,” Garak interrupted firmly, with an overly pleasant batting of the eyelashes. “But I wouldn’t say no to resuming our weekly lunches. I was looking forward to—what was it we were going to read next? Ah, the writings of the ancient Greeks?”  
  
“I really am sorry I’ve been so scarce lately,” Bashir said quietly. Ah, but the doctor still seemed concerned and unconvinced. “And if there’s something you need to tell me then you only need to ask and I promise I’ll take it seriously.”  
  
“That would be a grave mistake, Doctor,” Garak said with forced patience. “Perhaps I haven’t taught you well enough yet after all.”  
  
Bashir stared at him for a moment more, then sighed, rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and shrugged. “Alright. I give up then. Ancient Greeks it is. I’ll just have to decide what to start us on. Have you ever even heard of Socrates?”  
  
“I’ve heard him referenced, but rarely quoted.”  
  
“Well, that’s probably because most people haven’t studied—”  
  
“Doctor! There you are! Chief O’Brien said you might still be here.” Major Kira had appeared beside their table and seemed to ignore Garak’s presence, as usual, speaking only to Bashir. She looked slightly desperate. “It’s Ghemor. He says he has Yarim Fel syndrome and it’s fatal. Is that true? Is there something you can do for him?”  
  
“Ghemor?” Garak said, startled. “Tekeny Ghemor is on the station?”  
  
“Yes,” Kira said, glancing at him as if surprised to see him, but quickly putting her attention back on Bashir. “I couldn’t convince him to go to the infirmary, but maybe if you come look at him—”  
  
“Well I don’t know how much I can do, but I can certainly have a look.” Bashir rose halfway out of his chair and then glanced at Garak, clearly still bothered.  
  
Garak just smiled slightly. Medical interruptions were almost to be expected. “We weren’t discussing anything important. We’ll see each other soon enough, Doctor.”  
  
Bashir nodded and hurried off with Kira. Garak sat back in his chair with a feeling of relief. It would take a bit more time to strengthen the old boundaries between himself and Bashir, but at least he’d put Bashir slightly on the defensive. And now there was this intriguing bit of news. Tekeny Ghemor, here on the station—and dying of Yarim Fel. It was time to get back in touch with some of his friends on Cardassia. 

...

There was a tangled row of stitches that wouldn’t come out in the dress. Garak blew out a sigh and started picking them out one by one, pausing every few seconds to glance up at his customer with a knowing smile.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Ziyal said sheepishly. “I really wanted to try fixing it on my own, but I obviously don’t have any idea how to use a Lorillian Needle.”  
  
“No need to apologize, my dear,” Garak said kindly. “You’re doing me a favor—I’ve been dreadfully bored this afternoon, and I needed some work to take my mind off things.”  
  
“Is something bothering you?” Ziyal asked curiously.  
  
“Oh, no,” Garak said lightly, “not apart from the obvious. We are on the brink of war, after all. We all have to be careful where we step.” He finished removing the stitches and smoothed the cloth over his work table before glancing up at her again. A week after Bashir had so unexpectedly come to his quarters to hide from Zimmerman, Garak had finally informed Ziyal that he no longer intended to pursue the doctor in the foreseeable future. It had all been finalized in his mind when Bashir showed up at his shop one day with the Favinit plant, which had been dying of thirst.  
  
“Keiko tells me you gave this to me,” Bashir had said. “It must have been while the Changeling was here, but I have no idea how to take care of it.”  
  
The plant was sitting in Garak’s quarters now, and he was trying to nurse it back to health. He told himself that it was only fitting that Bashir gave the plant back. It symbolized a path their lives could never take. Once he’d come to that decision, he tried to be clear to Ziyal that he didn’t intend to pursue a romance with her either, but he could see that the tiny spark of hope was not going to be put out by anything he had the heart to do.  
  
“Oh, that reminds me,” Ziyal cried suddenly. “Kira wanted to invite me to have dinner with her and Ghemor tonight, and when I asked, she said it would be alright for you to come, if you want.”  
  
“Really?” Garak was genuinely startled. “Dinner with Tekeny Ghemor in Major Kira’s quarters!” He considered the idea. “The only thing that could possibly make _that_ situation more dangerous would be for Dukat himself to show up!”  
  
“I don’t understand,” Ziyal said, though she was grinning. “Is Ghemor dangerous?”  
  
“Well… let’s just say I don’t expect him to feel much fondness for a former operative of the Obsidian Order.”  
  
Ziyal’s voice was earnest. “But he’s a leader of the dissident movement now, and you’re not an operative anymore. I think you two probably have a lot more in common than you realize.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Garak admitted. “I’m just not sure if I should count on that. Besides… if not for you, Major Kira wouldn’t have invited me.”  
  
“So you’re not going to come?” Ziyal asked. Garak merely gave her an amused look and turned back to his sewing. “It would be a good opportunity to gather information. Just… think of it as a reconnaissance mission!”  
  
“Ah,” Garak laughed. “I had better be careful—you’re getting dangerous as well. Or at least you’ve learned one way to persuade me.”  
  
“So you’ll come? I’ll go tell Major Kira!”  
  
Ziyal jumped up and rushed off before Garak could reply. He laughed to himself and shook his head slightly. Well… at least she was right. This _was_ an opportunity, even if it was also an excuse for Ziyal to spend time with him. And this sewing was not going to distract him for much longer… all the better to have a new distraction. 

...

The promised “reconnaissance mission” was canceled. Garak heard the news from Ziyal, who he ran into just as he was heading to Major Kira’s quarters.  
  
“Kira’s gone to sit with Ghemor in his quarters—his condition suddenly got a lot worse and she said they want to use whatever time they have left for Shri-tal. Doctor Bashir just finished setting up all the medical equipment.”  
  
“Shri-tal?” Garak said, again surprised. “That’s quite an honor for him to entrust all his life’s secrets to Major Kira.”  
  
“She’s the closest thing to family he has left,” Ziyal said. “And he wants her to use them to help stop the Dominion.”  
  
“I see. Perhaps you were right,” Garak said thoughtfully. “I wish I could have talked with him sooner—we might have gotten along just fine after all.”  
  
“If you’d really like to speak with him, I can talk to Major Kira.”  
  
Garak turned helplessly toward Bashir’s voice, backing away a step before he thought about it. “Ah, Doctor. How is the patient?”  
  
Bashir’s face had that heavy look of concern to it that meant he was bracing himself for loss—which, in his profession, meant failure. “Well,” the doctor said with forced optimism, “I’m giving him hexadrin therapy, but it will take a little time before I can tell if his body is responding to the treatments.”  
  
“I’m sure you’re giving him the best possible care,” Garak said softly, and realized he was staring at Bashir’s face without his usual smile. “He couldn’t be in better hands.”  
  
Bashir seemed a little startled at the praise, and nodded slightly. “I’ll certainly do my best. I’m just worried about Major Kira. It’s not easy, sitting at the deathbed of someone who’s like a father to you.”  
  
Grudgingly, Garak gave Bashir a half-second smile to acknowledge the reference to Tain. “No… it isn’t. Do you think she would like some company, Doctor?”  
  
“Ghemor insisted they not be interrupted, but I can ask Major Kira for an exception if it’s really important.”  
  
“Oh no… I wouldn’t _dream_ of taking up his valuable time,” said Garak with unusual gravity. “If Major Kira wants company, I’m sure Ziyal would be a much better candidate.” He put an arm around her shoulders loosely. “And as for you, Doctor… you should get some rest.”  
  
“I’ll try,” Bashir nodded to himself and sighed. “Goodnight….”  
  
He passed them both and headed to his quarters. Feeling slightly blank, Garak purposefully refocused his mind and let go of Ziyal, who turned to him.  
  
“I don’t suppose we could have dinner together anyway?” she asked.  
  
Garak considered briefly, then spoke in a confidential tone. “We could… but we’ll have to keep it short. I have some friends I need to contact. From the look on Doctor Bashir’s face, our friend Ghemor doesn’t have long to live. And if I’m not mistaken… we _may_ not be the only ones concerned about that.” 

...

Nearly fifty hours later, Garak set the finishing touches to the coded transmission he was sending. With eerie timing, Ziyal entered his shop just as he was getting ready to open it for the day.  
  
“Garak!” She cried as she ran in, and he knew instantly what she was going to say. “My father’s on the station! I heard he’s heading for Ghemor’s quarters.”  
  
He’d been expecting this. Gul Dukat. Garak imagined him strutting his way across the promenade as if he owned the place, his sinfully long neck stretched forward like some bird of prey eyeing all the silly little animals it was about to swoop down upon. No doubt he anticipated owning the station again once the Dominion had its way, just like he thought he owned Cardassia. The hatred rising in Garak was cold and solid like metal.  
  
He smiled warmly at Ziyal.  
  
“Ah... how nice of him to drop by _just_ to visit a dying fellow Cardassian.”  
  
“I know you think he’s up to something,” Ziyal said desperately, “but I don’t care. I have to talk to him. I have to try, but I don’t want to go by myself. Will you come with me?”  
  
Garak burst into a laugh before he could help himself. “My dear, really, I don’t think my presence will make Dukat any more willing to listen to you—quite the opposite, in fact!”  
  
“But I don’t know who else to ask,” Ziyal said weakly, reaching for his arm. “Kira’s busy listening to Ghemor. I don’t want to go in—I just want to wait outside the door until he comes out.”  
  
“I really think my presence will only make matters more uncomfortable,” said Garak. After staring at her face for a moment, he faltered. “But I suppose I could walk you there and wait with you, if you insist.”  
  
“Oh, thank you!” Ziyal embraced him and kissed his cheek. Garak patted her back awkwardly and, taking a deep breath, followed her to the door outside Ghemor’s quarters. After they had waited a few seconds, he whispered, “Let’s just see if there’s a good break in the conversation, shall we?” and leaned close to the door, ignoring Ziyal’s uncertain look.  
  
“Dukat, I have a week to live, maybe less. Do you—” Garak pressed his ear a little closer “—trade my silence for a _few short days_ under the Cardassian sun?!”  
  
“It is where you _belong_ , Ghemor!” Dukat’s voice made Garak stiffen as if venom were pulling all his muscles tight.  
  
“And it’s where I’d be at this very moment, if you hadn’t _betrayed our people to the Dominion!_ ”  
  
“Maybe we should just wait,” Ziyal whispered, looking up and down the corridor nervously. Garak pulled away for a moment, with difficulty—he was surprised at how passionately he approved of Ghemor’s response. If the situation had been arranged differently, he might have burst into applause.  
  
“ _Garak?_ What are you doing?”  
  
For the second time in as many days, Garak turned at the sound of Bashir’s voice—he’d seen the flash of teal from the doctor’s uniform just a moment before.  
  
“Listening in on private conversations?” Bashir went on in an exasperated tone. Garak couldn’t help noticing the shadows under his eyes. “I always suspected you of eavesdropping but I never imaged you could be so blatant about it!” Bashir folded his arms with a look of almost parental disapproval. “Step away from that door.”  
  
“You misunderstand me, Doctor,” Garak said in a placating tone. “I was just hoping to find a good moment to interrupt. Ziyal wishes to speak to her father—after all, she might not get another chance for quite a while.”  
  
“Oh. Well, in that case, I’ll step in and inform Gul Dukat. I wanted to check back in anyway—I left Major Kira to handle things, but I don’t trust either Dukat or his companion.”  
  
“Um,” Ziyal blurted. “It’s alright, I just remembered something I wanted to show my father—I need to run back to my quarters to get it.”  
  
“I’ll tell him you’re waiting for him at your quarters,” Bashir said politely.  
  
“Ah-Doctor,” Garak said quickly. “Just as a warning—you may be interrupting a—”  
  
The door opened and Dukat and his Dominion companion stepped out. The Vorta looked delighted and surprised at the small crowd by the door, but Dukat’s eyes flicked quickly past Ziyal and onto Garak. He tilted his head back pompously.  
  
“If it isn’t the infamous tailor,” he said in that slimy drawl Garak hated so much. “Come to pay your last respects, I presume?”  
  
“And what might _you_ be up to, Dukat?” Garak replied, his smile truly frightening in its forced intensity. “Are house calls to the dying a part of your new duties as the illustrious leader of a newer, freer Cardassia?” The words burned on the way out.  
  
Dukat just smirked as if he’d been complimented. “I will always have time for the citizens of Cardassia,” he replied in what was no doubt his most benevolent tone. “But unfortunately that leaves me no time to trade banter with you.”  
  
He turned sharply to leave, his eyes sliding past Ziyal as if she were invisible. Garak was aware of how Ziyal’s eyes were glued to the back of Dukat’s uniform. How desperately she wanted to speak with him, and he wouldn’t even acknowledge her. It made it so much easier for his mind to cement the idea that had been forming ever since Ghemor’s arrival.  
  
“He didn’t even look at me,” Ziyal said numbly.  
  
Garak put an arm around her shoulders, glancing at Bashir, who watched them with that tired look.  
  
“He’s a lost cause, my dear,” Garak said.  
  
“Maybe he’d be more receptive if you tried to speak with him alone,” Bashir suggested. “He and Garak don’t exactly get along.”  
  
Garak held in a sigh. He could barely keep himself from exclaiming something like— _Doctor, must you always_ encourage _false hopes? It will only hurt her more in the end, and I had hoped you would be a little more realistic after all you’ve seen these past five years._ But maybe it was for the best. As always, perhaps only a direct confrontation would convince Ziyal.  
  
A few hours later, Garak had managed to cheer her up over lunch. While she went to her quarters to sort out her thoughts so she could present them to Dukat, Garak slipped off to one of the hidden comm. panels that only he and Quark regularly used.  
  
“Ahh, Boheeka, I believe it was?” Garak asked the Cardassian on the screen in his most friendly tone. “Quark tells me you’re a trusted contact, and a former glinn.”  
  
“Are you sure this transmission won’t be intercepted?” Boheeka asked nervously.  
  
“The channel is secure,” Garak assured him with a brief smile. “Now, as I understand it, I owe you _some_ apology. If I hadn’t asked Quark to procure a certain item for me a few years ago, he would not have asked _you_ for a code which was strictly classified.”  
  
Boheeka’s face drained of what little color it held. “ _You_ were the one?” he stammered. “I could have been killed! That item—I—”  
  
Garak held up a hand. “But you weren’t! In fact, you seem to have slipped past the worst the Obsidian Order could have done to you. Let’s just say that I know from experience how _unpleasant_ it can be to be noticed by the Order. You see?” He kept his voice light. Let Boheeka think he was just some poor sap who had blundered up, like him, caught up in things far beyond his humble occupation. “We already have a lot in common.”  
  
The glinn still looked cautious and considered Garak carefully for a moment. Finally he seemed to make up his mind. “I’ve been lucky. I don’t know why I got off so easily at the time, but because I was out of favor with the Obsidian Order, when the Dominion took over, no one suspected I’d oppose them—any enemy of the Order was a friend of the Dominion. So they’ve left me alone. I’ve been in contact with others, some of my old allies from the military who want the Dominion out of our system.”  
  
“Good!” Garak hissed excitedly. “You are in the _perfect_ position. An attempt to overthrow Dominion rule on Cardassia is being organized. The dissident movement is already involved, but we need supporters within the current government as well. Any day now, an attempt will be made on Gul Dukat’s life. If it succeeds, we _must_ be prepared to take advantage of the instability that will cause and force the Dominion out before it can regain its footing!”  
  
“I’ll pass the word along,” Boheeka said, still looking a little terrified, but resolute.  
  
“Just be careful who you inform,” Garak warned. “We don’t want to accidentally take away the vital element of surprise.” 

...

Garak could see the look on the doctor’s face so clearly.  
  
Dukat’s body wasn’t rigid yet, his pompous face plastered with a delicious expression of helpless shock. Bashir was scanning Dukat’s midsection with a medical tricorder and kept exclaiming over the readings in low, baffled tones.  
  
“I don’t _understand!_ They’re organic compounds: some kind of plant fiber and a gel mixture high in monosaccharides….”  
  
“Sugars?” The nurse asked uneasily. “So….”  
  
“I still can’t believe someone managed to do this,” Bashir said under his breath. “Figuring out a way to assassinate the head of the Cardassian government while he was under Dominion protection… you would have to be either insane or an absolute genius.”  
  
“But why sugar? Do you think they _meant_ to transport it into the heart? Maybe it was an accident!”  
  
“I’m not sure,” Bashir muttered. He took a deep breath. “But I doubt it’s an accident. This is all too unusual. I don’t even know exactly what it is. We’ll have to open him up and take a look.”  
  
“But Doctor Bashir, the Dominion—”  
  
“We have to focus on the problem at hand,” Bashir said dismissively. “Get me an exoscalpel.”  
  
The nurse obeyed and Bashir visibly steeled himself before making the first cut into Dukat’s chest. Slowly, working with grim deliberation, Bashir exposed the Cardassian’s motionless heart. He took a slow step back in shock.  
  
“It’s….”  
  
“What is it, Doctor?” the nurse said. He came closer and a look of amazement froze on his face.  
  
“But why?” Bashir said breathlessly, unable to tear his eyes away. “Why would someone….”  
  
“Is that… Doctor, is that what I think it is?”  
  
“Yes.” Bashir swallowed, clearly finding it difficult to describe what he was seeing, although it should have been simple. “It’s… a jumja stick.”  
  
The nurse’s hands went near his mouth, out of horror or perhaps nausea.  
  
The door behind Garak opened and Quark walked into the holosuite, dispelling Garak’s fantasies instantly. It was almost too bad Garak hadn’t taken the time to make the scene visible outside his own mind—it would have been amusing to see Quark’s reaction. Ah well, he thought. Soon enough it would all be completely real.  
  
“How’s it coming?” Quark asked, leaning slightly toward the exit.  
  
“Oh, wonderfully!” Garak stood up, moving away from the mess of technology he’d been fiddling with on the floor. He leaned backwards a bit to ease the tension that had been building in his shoulders and grinned at Quark, eyes wide. “I’m just about finished.”  
  
“Great,” Quark said, folding his arms snugly. “Just be sure to put that replicator back the way it was when this is all over.” He blew a breath between his sharp teeth, glancing around nervously. “I can’t believe you talked me into this one. This had _better work_ or we could both get eaten alive by Jem’Hadar!”  
  
  ”Quark,” Garak said with a patient smile, “where’s the faith you once had in my abilities? Only a year ago you trusted me with your life!”  
  
“I never trusted you with my life!” Quark cried dramatically. Then he mumbled, “I trusted you with my death. It’s not the same thing.”  
  
“Well! If it makes you feel any better,” Garak said, raising both eyebrows, “you can think of this as trusting me with someone _else’s_ death. And I’m sure you already know how efficiently that death will be carried out.” Before Quark could protest any further, Garak switched tracks abruptly. “We should test the modified datapad you’ll be using to transmit Dukat’s coordinates to me. Go downstairs and give me the coordinates for somewhere behind the bar, so no one will see—not that they would. I’ll be sending this.” Garak produced an ordinary, small white button from one of his pockets.  
  
Quark scowled at it, then glanced at Garak’s beaming face and turned away with a heavy sigh. “Suit yourself. But this better work! I’m still not sure it’s worth risking my life and livelihood just to assassinate the biggest idiot in the Alpha Quadrant.”  
  
Garak just grinned to himself and finished the last few adjustments to the replicator-turned-transporter he’d been working on all afternoon. Then, he placed the button inside the replicator and waited.  
  
After a moment, the replicator received the coordinates and Garak flipped the switch to activate the transporter. The button vanished.  
  
Minutes later, at the bar, Quark silently dropped the same button into Garak’s hand while serving a cup of tea, then went off to take someone’s order on the same datapad he’d used to send the coordinates.  
  
“Your friend left you a message,” Quark said when he came back to refill Garak’s tea. “He says he can cover for the freeloader’s tab. He’s got an uncle who’s sick and his whole family’s feeling a bit generous. They’ll do what they can about the others too.”  
  
Garak smirked into his cup. “I’m relieved to hear it. I wouldn’t want this whole place to go out of business.” So one of Ghemor’s allies was confident he had enough support to act once Dukat was removed from power. It would likely still be a messy affair, and of course it might fail, but Garak would just have to do what he could to arrange for the best odds possible.  
  
That night, he went to bed hopeful and strung tight with anticipation. It was hours before he could sleep. Running over the delicious daydream turned into a struggle with half-conscious nightmares.  
  
As soon as the Vorta realized Dukat was dead, he ordered his Jem’Hadar to destroy the station, no questions asked.  
  
Dukat moved just before the transporter activated, and everyone was left scrambling to find the would-be assassin.  
  
The transporter method was not immediately lethal—Dukat went to the infirmary and died on Bashir’s operating table—the Dominion accused the doctor of letting him die on purpose and decided to kill or imprison him....  
  
Garak rolled over, staring into the complete darkness of his bedroom and trying to dispel the image of Bashir being beaten to death. How many times had he been through the pre-mission anxiety? He couldn’t let these jitters prevent the plan from going through. No one else had the means to kill Dukat so easily, and it was necessary to eliminate him from the picture if there was any chance for someone with more sense to take power. Now, he even had proof there were many on Cardassia who deeply disagreed with Dukat and were ready to command.  
  
He took a deep breath. It felt good to set his mind to a task. Finally, here was something he could control in regards to Cardassia’s future, and his own. Something meaningful. 

...

Major Kira had spent days with Ghemor and had learned a few things even Garak hadn’t known before. Dukat had made an offer to Ghemor of having all past “wrongs” erased. Quite tempting, Garak knew, but Ghemor hated the Dominion too much to acquiesce.  
  
Garak was reviewing his personal log of recent events, which held many details Bashir had been kind enough to fill him in on recently during their last, slightly tense lunchtime visit. The log was written in a fairly simple code he’d made up himself; to the average person it would seem merely a ramble about various sewing patterns, techniques, and materials.  
  
“Some exciting new project?”  
  
Bashir’s voice came from the doorway—Garak’s head swung around and he stared, startled that the doctor had approached unnoticed. He must have been more engrossed in his reading than he realized.  
  
“What brings you here, Doctor?” Garak turned off his computer monitor and approached Bashir with a confident smile, which only grew more pronounced when Bashir raised his eyebrows.  
  
“You mean you’ve actually forgotten? Well, I suppose there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”  
  
“Forgotten? Ah! Of course! Our lunch…! I am dreadfully sorry, Doctor, I’ve been so distracted with my work lately. Your assessment of me is quite correct.”  
  
“It must be quite the project to make you so absent-minded,” Bashir teased. “I can’t think of a single time it’s been you who actually forgot. You’ve been late a few times, but never let it just slip your mind like this. Are you feeling alright?”  
  
“I’m feeling splendid, Doctor, if a little embarrassed.” Subtle adrenaline suffused Garak. Every time he thought of Dukat’s imminent demise, every time he made contact with another promising Cardassian rebel, he felt a thrill of hope at a possible future for the Cardassia he’d always known and loved.  
  
“Well, there’s still time,” Bashir said easily. “Would you like to join me for lunch?”  
  
Garak took a short breath. “I’m afraid I can’t. You see, our appointment slipped my mind so entirely that I’m now expecting a visit from a very special customer sometime in the next hour—it could be any minute now. So, unfortunately, I am unable to leave the shop unattended.”  
  
“I see.” Bashir nodded pleasantly enough, although his smile faltered a little as he clasped his hands behind his back and sighed. “Perhaps we could reschedule for tomorrow? Or meet for dinner tonight instead?”  
  
“I’d be delighted with either option,” Garak said with a gracious nod which he meant to come across as a clear goodbye. Bashir, however, feigned ignorance, pacing over to the wall to fiddle with the sleeve of a particularly garish costume made of what looked like gold plastic.  
  
“Who _is_ this very special customer, I wonder? Has someone famous taken an interest in your clothing designs?”  
  
“I’m afraid I’ve been sworn to the utmost secrecy about this project until it comes to light, Doctor,” Garak said smugly, easing back down in front of his computer and turning on the screen. “Besides… I won’t know anything for certain until tonight. My very special customer might change her mind once she’s met me in person. Some people don’t know what to do with my incomparable personality.”  
  
He glanced down at the screen casually. A little blip was repeating in the corner, nearly unnoticeable beneath one of the letters. Seeing it set the nerves all along his arms tingling. Time to head to Quark’s—the target was in place.  
  
“Ah, I think I just saw my customer walk right by my shop,” Garak said, jumping to his feet. “I had better go make sure she isn’t lost. Thank you for stopping by Doctor, and I do apologize once again for forgetting about our lunch today.”  
  
“Oh, not at all. I’ll see you tonight then?”  
  
“Certainly.”  
  
He rushed out onto the promenade, quickly merging into a small knot of people near the kiosk that sold jumja sticks. He waited there, watching. Bashir came out of his shop and looked around for a moment—no doubt searching for Garak—before heading over toward the replemat. Garak relaxed a bit and joined the line, trying to suppress his feelings of anticipation, when another familiar voice called his name.  
  
“Garak! I saw you coming out of your shop….”  
  
He turned to see Ziyal standing beside him, wiping her reddened eyes surreptitiously. Her voice seemed unsteady.  
  
“My dear!” he cried in a tone of concern, slightly aghast and hoping he could resolve her worries quickly. “What’s the matter?”  
  
“It’s nothing, I just….”  
  
“There you are, enjoy your jumja stick!” the man behind the counter said, and Garak took the massive confection and stepped out of line, giving his full attention to Ziyal. Or at least, he hoped that was how he appeared—his mind was actually calculating how much time he could afford to waste before putting his plan into action.  
  
“Has someone harmed or insulted you?” Garak asked. “If so, you need only give me a brief physical description and I’m sure either I or Major Kira will take care of them for you.” He smiled teasingly but Ziyal didn’t even look at him. She just shook her head.  
  
“It’s my father,” she said softly.  
  
A cold feeling started seeping into Garak’s stomach like a wintry draft.  
  
After trying and failing to calm herself, Ziyal added desperately, “I don’t know what to do. I tried to talk to him, but he won’t even acknowledge me as his daughter anymore….”  
  
“Forget him,” Garak said, more harshly than he meant to. “Ziyal, I know you care about him, but he does not deserve your concern. He’s too far gone.”  
  
“How can you say that?” Ziyal burst, an angry tear escaping her eye. “He’s the only family I have! I _can’t_ forget him—I thought you would understand that….”  
  
“Well, if he’s so much more important to you than anything else, I suppose there’s nothing I can do for you,” Garak blurted nervously, edging toward Quark’s. He was running out of time—who knew how long Dukat would stay in one place?  
  
“Wait!” Ziyal cried in a pleading tone. “Garak… I didn’t mean it like that. He’s not the only person who’s important to me. That’s why I came to you—I didn’t know who else to talk to, I don’t know what to do. I thought maybe _you_ could….” Her voice broke and she stopped.  
  
“You thought I could talk to him for you?” Garak guessed. “My dear….” He tried not to sound patronizing. “You don’t seem to understand. I’m afraid that of all the people in the universe, I’m the one your father is least likely to listen to about anything.”  
  
“I know that,” she said weakly, “I just….”  
  
“I know what you can do,” Garak said suddenly in a stroke of brilliance. “Why don’t you have Major Kira talk to him! She seems to have some kind of unusual rapport with your father.”  
  
“She did,” Ziyal wobbled quietly, more tears escaping. She tried to hide them by bowing her head. “Or at least, he came to talk to her—I followed him to her quarters and waited until he came back out, but he… he acted as if I wasn’t there. I called to him, over and over… but he just got angry….”  
  
Garak stared at her helplessly, the jumja stick destined to kill Dukat still clutched in one hand. He didn’t have time for this! Of all the times for her to come seeking his sympathy—! For a moment he tried with all his might to be angry at her, but in the face of her tears, the only anger he could feel was toward Dukat.  
  
“You see? He’s not _worth_ this! He may have rescued you from the Breen, but that’s not enough—you don’t owe him anything, Ziyal! He _abandoned you!_ He has turned his back on everything that ever could have redeemed him, _everything_ a true Cardassian believes in!”  
  
“I don’t care,” Ziyal mumbled at the floor.  
  
“ _Listen to me!_ ” Garak took her by one shoulder with his free hand and shook her ever so slightly. A kind of desperation was welling up in him. “Your father has done terrible things! Everything you’ve ever heard about him—it’s _all_ true, I can guarantee it, almost every word! Just because he did one kind thing does not mean he is a kind man, Ziyal. He abandoned _you_ to your fate! Abandon him to his! You can’t afford to have your happiness wrapped up in him like this. How can you care so much about someone like him?”  
  
Her shoulder trembled beneath his hand. He let go slowly, half his mind still screaming at him to leave her and get on with his task—but she was struggling to speak again.  
  
“I—I can’t help it,” she stammered miserably, “I know… what you’re saying… but I can’t help it.” She was really crying now. “He’s my father. I can’t help it—I want to be with him.”  
  
She reached blindly for him, bursting into sobs, and Garak was aware of several things at once. He saw how many people in the crowd moving past Quark’s bar could see and hear his conversation with Ziyal. He was aware of the strong urge to pull away from her, to hurry away to the holosuite and the duty that awaited him there. He was aware that if he didn’t act now, there was no guarantee that he would get another chance to change history, and by failing to act, he might be condemning Cardassia to further misery. And he was also aware of the impossibility of leaving Ziyal here in such a state—leaving her so he could give her yet another reason to cry over her father.  
  
Numbly, Garak allowed her to bury her face in his chest, and he put his arms around her, still holding the jumja stick. Another failure. A long moment passed in which the sounds of the crowd merged into a numb, dreamlike humming in his ears, and his eyes focused on small details without really processing them. He helplessly watched vital seconds pass. Finally, he jerked his head slightly as if to shake the feeling off.  
  
“Come, my dear,” he sighed in heavy defeat. “Let’s get away from this crowd.” He pulled away slightly but kept an arm around her shoulders to guide her away from the promenade. “Would you like to have this? I’ve no use for it now.” He offered her the jumja stick.  
  
“Thank you,” she choked.  
  
She reached for it. For half a second Garak felt a sickening pang of self-loathing for the choice he’d made, but then he let the stick pass into her hands and the feeling softened a little into a subdued ache.  
  
When they reached his quarters, Garak got two glasses of Rokassa juice from the replicator and, after giving one to Ziyal, excused himself to his bedroom for a moment to send a message to Quark. He came back to see Ziyal looking at the Favinit plant, which had finally perked up a little. The sight of it made him feel slightly ill.  
  
“Where did you learn how to take care of plants, Garak?” She asked shakily, a few tears still coming. “Was someone in your family a gardener?”  
  
Garak hesitated a moment. It was best to keep trying to distract her. “Yes—my father.”    
  
Ziyal looked surprised. “Oh.” She swallowed. “Were you close to your father?”  
  
Garak smiled hollowly and sat down by her, thinking briefly of Tain, and the man he had grown up calling father, and how different they were. It took effort to speak. All the people he’d contacted had been counting on this assassination.  
  
“I suppose… he was always important to me.” His mind was still far away, in Quark’s, waiting in the holosuite for the noises of shock in the aftermath to settle down… would Quark get his message and follow through?  
  
“You told me you didn’t have any family on Cardassia,” Ziyal murmured.  
  
“When I was exiled,” Garak said quietly, “I lost my place in my family. So in a way, I was telling the truth.”  
  
“Is he still alive?”  
  
“No.” Garak sighed, staring at one of the lavender star-shaped flowers on the plant in front of him. Half its petals were dry and brittle. He imagined Federation bombs dropping on the Tarlak Sector, decimating the memorials where Tolan had held services for so many dignitaries and generals… and still Dukat would bow to Dominion rule. “No… he’s gone.”  
  
Ziyal put an arm around him and leaned against his shoulder, and they fell into silence. Garak, sitting stiffly, found himself thinking again of Tain’s dying words and the never-ending hunger for acknowledgement he felt. Could he blame Ziyal for a similar feeling? Bashir’s well-meaning advice in the prison camp rang very close to what he had just preached at her. And now he couldn’t tell if it was duty to Cardassia or some childlike need which had driven him to Tain’s deathbed.  
  
Everywhere he turned were mistakes made from sentiment—suffering for himself and for others because he had given in. He felt a chilly sense of foreboding. What had he doomed himself to this time—and how would the few people he cared about suffer because of it? 

...

“Are you finished? I’ve got some customers who want to use this holosuite!” Quark’s voice was only half impatient.  
  
Garak glanced over at Quark and sighed as if he were being put-upon, before fine-tuning the last few adjustments and snapping the whole thing closed. “I do apologize. For some reason, it just took a lot longer to put it back together than it did to take it apart. There _is_ something to be said for enthusiasm.”  
  
“Well,” Quark chuffed half a laugh, “not that I’m complaining, but uh… why didn’t you do it, anyway?”  
  
“I was detained,” Garak said haltingly, “and in the interests of keeping attention away from you and your bar, I decided to abort the mission. ‘Postpone’ may be a better word.”  
  
“How thoughtful of you!” Quark said, grinning.  
  
“I notice you didn’t accept my invitation to kill him yourself. You could have used one of those old bottles of kanar.”  
  
Quark shook his head with a face like he was turning down his least favorite food. “Nah. It’s not worth it to me. His friend, the Vorta, what’s his name… he was spending a lot of time at the dabo wheel. Who knows, Dominion rule might not be so bad after all.”  
  
“Well, I won’t waste time trying to convince you otherwise.” Garak headed for the door.  
  
“Oh! Garak!” Quark said. “I almost forgot. Doctor Bashir’s waiting for you downstairs.”  
  
Garak paused a moment, not sure he wanted to face Bashir in his current state of mind, but perhaps he could make up an excuse to evade dinner. He headed down into the noisy dimness of the bar. Bashir stood near the entrance.  
  
“Ah, Doctor,” Garak said, “I apologize for making you wait, but I’m afraid I can’t talk long. You see—”  
  
“It’s about Ghemor,” Bashir interrupted in a whisper. “He passed away about fifteen minutes ago.”  
  
“Oh... I see.” The dull weight of regret reappeared in Garak’s stomach. “Please give my condolences to Major Kira.”  
  
“That’s why I’ve been looking for you. Ghemor is being buried on Bajor to avoid letting Dukat have his way, and we’re not informing anyone of his death until then so he can’t interfere. But Kira wants to respect Cardassian tradition as much as possible, with regards to preparing the body. She hasn’t allowed anyone else to view it yet.” Bashir looked at him steadily, still keeping his voice low. “I know you wish you could have given Tain a proper burial, and since you’re the only adult Cardassian on the station, I thought you would be the best person to ask. He really was like a father to Kira.”  
  
The momentary resistance Garak put up faded out, and he stared at Bashir with sudden gratitude. He thought of Ziyal, who had nearly lost the only family member she had left, her mother buried on a strange planet far away, and he thought of Tolan dying in their home beneath Tain’s house; Tain dying in that prison camp; Bashir standing before him, alive. Their lives were connected in such strange ways.  
  
“I would consider it an honor.”  
  
Bashir smiled. “Good. Now, I understand Ziyal was promised dinner with you tonight, but Kira insisted on taking her to spend the evening with the O’Briens. She’ll be fine… Kira will look after her. Which leaves you free to keep your dinner appointment with me after we’re done with the funeral arrangements.”  
  
Garak’s mouth opened slightly in dismay, and then he sucked in a resigned breath. “Well, I suppose it’s about time, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes.” Bashir clapped a hand onto his shoulder and steered him toward the infirmary..

 


	10. Compound Interest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place during and has some dialogue taken directly from episode 5x24 (Empok Nor). Enjoy! Please review!

From the upper level of the promenade, Garak and Bashir watched Kira’s shuttle depart for Bajor.  
  
“Kira told me to thank you for helping prepare Ghemor’s body.”  
  
“Mm.” Garak forced a smile. “The day the Major expresses gratitude to me directly would be a frightening day indeed.”  
  
“You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. I can just imagine you… immediately suspecting she was a Changeling imposter,” Bashir said with a faint smirk, but his teasing tone only made Garak all the more aware of how far his mind still was from any humor.  
  
“Ah, yes, well, we’ve seen how skilled I am at exposing such imposters,” Garak sighed with raised eyebrows, still staring off although the shuttle was out of sight.  
  
“Come on.” Bashir reached out an arm to clasp Garak’s shoulder. “Some dinner should cheer us up.”  
  
Garak doubted that, given the questions he knew were coming. Still, he followed the doctor down the stairs and toward the replemat without resistance. As they passed Quark’s, the tingling suffocation settled on him even more heavily. He was glad Bashir was also feeling solemn from the task they’d just completed, and so his own silence was not yet incongruous.  
  
“Ratamba stew?” Bashir noted with interest as Garak grabbed his tray.  
  
“I do enjoy a few Bajoran dishes. Ziyal introduced this one to me a short time ago. But perhaps you’re right. I’m not sure I should have picked such a pungently odorous item.”  
  
“It smells good,” Bashir said, and promptly ordered a bowl for himself. Once they’d settled down and Garak had unfolded his napkin, Bashir looked at him over folded hands. “I hope I’m not breaking some Cardassian behavioral norm by having dinner with you after performing funeral arrangements.”  
  
Garak gave him a small but short-lived grin.”Not at all, Doctor. And there’s certainly enough about the whole situation which is less than ideal—this would hardly be the most upsetting detail.”  
  
Bashir nodded slowly, stirring the deep green stew. “You just seem more… solemn… than usual. But then,” he sighed, “I suppose things aren’t looking the brightest they’ve ever been. You must be worried about the future of Cardassia. I’m only glad Dukat hasn’t managed to use Ghemor’s death to his advantage somehow. Not yet anyway.”  
  
“Yes,” Garak said to his unused spoon in a voice thick with disgust. “Dukat. It’s a real shame _someone_ hasn’t managed to assassinate him yet. He comes strolling through this station as if the occupation never ended, ignores Ziyal, leaving her reduced to _tears_ , and tries to pretend he wants Ghemor home safe and sound! It’s positively embarrassing.”  
  
“And it only made things worse for Kira.” Bashir grimaced. After a few moments of uncharacteristic silence from Garak, he cleared his throat. “It was very difficult for her to stay with Ghemor in his final moments. But ultimately, it helped her to find closure about her own father’s death.”  
  
“Doctor,” Garak sighed impatiently, finally plunging his spoon into his stew before he looked up at Bashir. “What you no doubt see as great subtlety on your part is as plain as day to me. I hope you’re not under some illusion that I’m struggling to find closure over Tain’s death. And even if I were, why would I choose to tell you about it in such a public setting?”  
  
“Would you prefer we have this conversation in my quarters?”  
  
“I would _prefer_ it if we didn’t have it at all.”  
  
“You promised me an honest discussion, Garak,” Bashir said lightly. “I’m not trying to force you into anything, but as your doctor and your friend, I think it’s my duty to tell you that regardless of how you’re feeling, you have been exhibiting… some symptoms.”  
  
“Symptoms?” Garak tilted his head in a mock curiosity. “Of what?”  
  
Bashir took a deep breath and sat back, speaking each word with blunt deliberation. “Of repressed grief.”  
  
Garak laughed a little and reached for his cup of tea, stew still untouched. “Please, Doctor, illuminate me. I would like to know how to avoid giving such a false representation of myself.” He took a brief sip. “After all, I’d hate to be accused of being ingenuous.”  
  
“You’re forgetful. You’ve never forgotten our lunches before and yet you did today.”  
  
“I told you, I was caught up in my work.” Garak waved a hand in a baffled gesture.  
  
“You always have work. And besides, that’s not all. Whenever I’ve seen you lately you seem … agitated. Distracted.”  
  
“Ah, and you’ve seen so much of me lately,” Garak said sarcastically, finally taking a moment to eat a spoonful of stew.  
  
“So you’re annoyed at me then. It did bother you that I’ve been avoiding you.”  
  
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Doctor,” Garak said once he’d swallowed. “Was I agitated and distracted while eavesdropping at the door to Ghemor’s quarters? Hmm? Did you take into account that I might simply be _annoyed_ at Dukat’s presence on the station?”  
  
“Annoyed enough to forget our first lunch date in weeks?”  
  
“Its irregularity made it all the easier to forget.”  
  
“You _are_ angry with me!” Bashir stared at him.  
  
“I’m afraid you must be projecting your own emotions onto me, Doctor. I think you might want to examine your own annoyance at being forgotten before you accuse me of anything else.”  
  
“I’m just telling you what I see,” Bashir murmured. “I thought you might want to know what sort of impression you’re giving off. As it is, your answers make me suspect that I’m closer to the mark than you’d ever willingly admit. Maybe it’s a combination of the two. You have conflicting feelings toward me _and_ Tain.”  
  
“Oh, what must it be like to live in a universe where the most simple and self-centered explanation is always the correct one.” Garak voice went wistful as he stared straight into the doctor’s dark eyes with a chiding look. “‘Know thyself,’ Doctor. I can see you haven’t been taking our reading of Plato to heart.”  
  
Bashir’s brow unfurrowed. “I wasn’t aware you had already read some of what I recommended.”  
  
“You see? You’ve misjudged me again. But then, what else should I expect? You seem to feel that you are the resident expert in Cardassian psychology. Perhaps you happened to take a semester of alien psychology at Starfleet and they spent a week or so on Cardassians. Who knows? Perhaps it was just a single paragraph in your textbook, detailing how Cardassians are easy to understand if you simply apply reverse psychology—an assumption which, if I may say so, is grossly simplistic. Even disregarding that, isn’t it a little foolish to think you can judge one person by your own biased view of his entire species?”  
  
A slow, smug smile spread across Bashir’s face. “Even disregarding my supposed idiocy, isn’t it a little foolish for you to react so defensively?”  
  
“I’m merely engaging in our usual level of debate,” Garak said flatly. “Pointing out, as always, the enormous blind spots in your already narrow range of vision.”  
  
“No…you’re not taking the same joy out of it as usual,” Bashir said with calm certainty. “I could bore you with a Sherlock Holmes style deduction of all the subtle differences in how you’re reacting to me now, but it would be a lot simpler if you would just accept that I see through your act.”  
  
“You’re no fun at all, Doctor,” Garak said with a humorless laugh. The conversation provided him with a convenient distraction, but it was ineffective when it strayed so close to the heart of the matter.  
  
“You’re trying to drive me away. I’m not going to fall for that—there must be a reason.”  
  
“Do you want an apology, Doctor? If that’s all it is, then I’ve already said how sorry I am for forgetting our appointment.”  
  
“I think you’re the one who wants an apology, Garak, but the thing is, I’m not sure what to apologize for that I haven’t already.”  
  
“Well! This conversation is quickly descending into the realm of dull repetition. No offense.” Garak turned back to his food with deliberate attentiveness, just in case Bashir didn’t get the hint.  
  
“Garak,” Bashir said firmly. His tone was like a parent warning a child not to toe the line. “I’m frankly a bit insulted by how often you underestimate my intelligence, even knowing what you do about my background. No amount of clever conversation is going to convince me that you’re not bothered by something, and with the obvious choice being Tain’s death or my absence, what else am I supposed to conclude? Your behavior back at the compound—”  
  
“Was mainly due to the incredible stress I was under,” Garak interrupted. “If you don’t remember, I was under considerable physical and psychological strain. Must you _really_ keep bringing this up? My behavior at that time is hardly an accurate measure of my current emotional state.”  
  
“Is it your headaches? Are they bothering you again?”  
  
“ _No_ , Doctor, my _head_ is just fine. And you’ll just have to trust me on that one, unless you’d like to drag me off to your infirmary and make this unusually thorough examination more _official_.”  
  
“Alright, I’m sorry,” Bashir sighed. “I can see you’re not ready to talk. I just thought… after what we talked about in my quarters….”  
  
“Whatever I said back then, Doctor, is by now extremely outdated. I have no interest in revisiting the questions I already answered to the best of my ability. Can I be blamed if you take my choices so personally?”  
  
“I can’t really help but take them personally when they involve me. Or someone you assumed was me.” Bashir frowned at the table and shifted in his seat. “In any case, I don’t understand why you won’t trust me enough to give a proper explanation. No, I don’t even need an explanation. I just assumed I’ve proven by now… that you can trust me with your feelings.”  
  
Garak stared at the doctor expressionlessly, studying as he often did the peculiar contours of his face. Something of the dark look from the compound remained with him in the new shadows around his eyes, even when he smiled. And he wasn’t smiling now. For a moment, Garak’s body seized up on the inside, a familiar unwelcome pain spreading from deep in his gut and rising up his neck. He clenched a hand on his lap and took a deep breath that quivered with hatred. He continued to stare until suddenly, Bashir’s face—confused and concerned—was just a face. Just a face of another naïve Federation human who meant nothing compared to the safety of the state.  
  
“I’m afraid this soup is a bit spicier than I can handle right now,” Garak said with a grimace, and cleared his throat before smiling. “Doctor, if you really consider yourself my friend, then I’m sure you can respect my wishes. If I feel a need to talk, rest assured. I know where to find you. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you would respect my own ability to handle difficult life events. Even ones which involve Dukat’s insufferable stupidity.”  
  
Bashir sat back in his seat, his eyebrows furrowed at a perplexed angle. “Alright. If you insist.”  
  
“Now, how much of Plato and Socrates have you read?”  
  
Bashir reluctantly moved on to the new topic. Garak felt weary, observing the conversation dispassionately, calculating… moving instantly to shut down any opening in his mind which might accept the doctor’s earnestness. Bashir was a resource, an invaluable one. Nothing was going to threaten that particular relationship.

...

“Ah, so the rumors are correct! The magnificent Quark has returned to his bar. The whole station’s been _lost_ without you.”  
  
“Garak.” Quark nodded a hello, his pointed teeth barely visible in a sly grin before heading in the opposite direction. “I’ll be right with you.”  
  
Garak settled onto the bar stool impatiently. It had been a few weeks since Ghemor’s death; Dukat had left the station, taking with him any chance for direct action on Garak’s part. In that time, Garak had taken to the problem of assassination with particular attention, letting it infect his every waking moment, and some rather pleasant dreams as well.  
  
But he had been missing a vital resource this past week or so. As Quark came back toward him and opened his mouth to take his order, Garak let some snappishness into his voice.  
  
“And what, _exactly_ , took you so long?”  
  
“You’re not the only customer,” Quark said with a helpless laugh. “Business is booming! But you’ve come at the right time—an hour ago, it was so crowded in here that Morn couldn’t find his way out! So what can I get for you?”  
  
“Getting to that in a moment… I’m curious as to what took you away from the station so suddenly after our last talk.”  
  
“Oh, that.” Quark’s lips slid back into an even toothier grin. “Nothing too glamorous. I just managed to single-handedly save the Ferengi economy and my mother’s relationship with her lover.” He waved a blue-nailed hand dismissively. “Just a regular day in the humble life of Quark. What have you been up to?”  
  
Garak raised his eyebrows. “Nothing quite so impressive as that, I’m afraid… not yet, anyway. But hopefully, with your help, I may be able to surpass even _your_ legendary heroics.”  
  
“Are you finally asking me for love advice? Who’s the lucky person? Come on,” Quark coaxed. “Ziyal’s already been in here to complain about you not seeing her. I can see you’re trying to let her down easy.”  
  
Garak tried not to roll his eyes. “Your preoccupation with gossip never ceases to amaze.”  
  
“It’s _called_ gathering valuable data on my clientele. It’s an important business practice! Besides, people don’t just come here for the food or the gambling or the holosuites… people come to Quark’s because they feel welcome! So…?” Quark settled against the counter, getting cozy. “Tell me, what’s your trouble?”  
  
“The same as last time,” Garak said with a theatrically mournful sigh. “Pest control. The only problem is that I’m out of ideas for bait.”  
  
“Cardassian voles again?” Quark guessed  
  
“Exactly. There’s a particularly ugly one that keeps popping up and tearing my work to pieces.”  
  
Quark’s uneasy look told Garak he hadn’t missed the reference to Dukat.  
  
“You know, I bet if you tried to come between it and its young, it would come out of hiding.”  
  
Garak leaned forward impatiently. “That won’t work I’m afraid. This particular vole seems to feel little parental protectiveness these days. I need something much more enticing and distracting than that.”  
  
“Well,” Quark said with a nervous chuckle. “I’m no expert on voles—”  
  
“All I’m asking is that you keep your ears open and let me know if you get any ideas. You could also let me use your equipment to try and find some solutions myself.”  
  
“As long as you don’t end up causing an infestation in my bar,” Quark said warningly.  
  
“Of course not! Though if I don’t act soon, there may be one anyway.”  
  
Quark drummed his fingers on the counter top, glancing around and puffing out a sigh between his lips. “Do you need to use anything now?”  
  
“I’d like to have some red leaf tea first, if you don’t mind.”  
  
“Coming right up. But as fair warning, don’t expect me to let you use all my equipment without a fee.”  
  
“Of course,” Garak smiled. “What would be a fair price?”  
  
“I might be willing to give you a discount if you tell me who’s caught your fancy? I could help you set up a romantic evening in the holosuites.” Quark handed the tea across the bar and put his chin in his hand.  
  
“Oh. In that case, I’d be happy to divulge. Although there’s no need for the holosuites.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“The answer is… nobody. I’m afraid there’s currently no one on the station I’m thinking of having a romantic evening with.”  
  
“Alright alright,” Quark gave up, waving a hand as if brushing the question off the counter. “It was worth a try.”

...

A few more weeks passed without any luck. Garak moved cautiously, using Quark’s private communication systems to try and contact Cardassian space, but Ghemor’s death seemed to have only driven his supporters further underground.  
  
Quark’s voice rang obnoxiously through the conduit Garak had crawled into. “Hey, you done in there? I’ve got a deal to discuss with someone, and I’m not taking payment in specialty garments anymore! I’d better see some latinum or this area’s off limits!”  
  
“As if you could keep me out,” Garak muttered to himself, applying a few more adjustments to the plasma distribution manifold and shutting the access panel. This particular panel happened to be set up near the secret communication system Quark had rigged. “You don’t suppose, upon hearing news of Ghemor’s death, perhaps some of his supporters staged an uprising and were swiftly silenced by the Dominion?”  
  
“Aw, no luck getting through to your friends?” Quark said in mock sympathy, hands on his hips as he watched Garak crawl out of the conduit. He shook his head slowly. “That’s just too bad. Especially since I can’t let you use my systems again until you pay your bill.”  
  
“Patience is a virtue, Quark,” Garak tsked, smiling over his own agitation. “Rest assured, the next time I come asking favors, I’ll bring you ample compensation.”  
  
“Alright then. You’d better get out there, Ziyal’s waiting for you.”  
  
“Ziyal?” Garak had to stifle a sigh of exasperation. “On second thought, sometimes even virtues such as patience can become a fault, when taken to their extreme.”  
  
He exchanged a glance with a grinning Quark, and steeled himself to put on a pleasant face for Ziyal. No matter how dismal he was feeling about life, the last thing he wanted was to upset her. Ironic, he thought to himself, since he wanted Dukat to die so badly, and that was sure to upset her more than anything else he might do.  
  
Her face lit up when she saw him, as always.  
  
“Quark said you were using a holosuite,” she said. “Have you been spending time in the sauna without me?”    
  
“Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear!” Garak sat down beside her at the table on the mezzanine. “I was simply making some modifications to a program Doctor Bashir and I used to play.”  
  
“I see.” Ziyal’s face went instantly thoughtful. “I heard you haven’t been spending much time with him lately.”  
  
“No less than usual,” Garak said innocently. “We have our weekly lunches. In fact, just yesterday he gave me a fascinating account of his most recent away mission, which apparently involved meeting his own descendents from the future.”  
  
Ziyal laughed. “His own descendents? Well, who was their mother?”  
  
“Oh, some ensign.” Garak waved a hand. “I also see him in the infirmary from time to time.” The visits to the infirmary were grudging ones, thrust upon Garak by Bashir’s insistence that he continue taking medication for his headaches. Garak had to admit, they had been getting markedly worse whenever he was off the medication for too long. But his lack of sleep was probably not helping that fact. “So, what was it that you wanted to see me about? Would you like to spend some time in the sauna together?” The option was beginning to sound inviting.  
  
“I would love to!” Ziyal’s smile was brilliant and irresistible. He smiled back warmly despite the guilty tension rising in his chest.  
  
“Well then, shall we?” He got up and offered her his arm.  
  
He hadn’t been able to avoid her since Ghemor’s death. She sought him out, as she had after her conversation with Dukat, sometimes just for company, sometimes as a confidante about her wish to reconcile with her father. Those conversations always left Garak cold and more resolved than ever to rid the universe of that monstrosity. He was getting desperate.

...

“Garak! Good morning.”  
  
“Ziyal! Well, you’re here a little early. I haven’t even opened the shop yet. Is something the matter?”  
  
“Oh, no! Actually, I came to tell you that Captain Sisko wants you to meet him on the bridge. But maybe we could have lunch later?” Ziyal looked at him hopefully.  
  
“It would be my pleasure,” Garak said cordially. “Although we’ll have to try somewhere other than Quark’s—I hear there’s some dreadful noise there due to system repairs. Assuming, of course, that whatever the Captain wants to see me about doesn’t demand my immediate attention.”  
  
It did. Garak could hardly believe his luck.  
  
Sisko’s voice had its usual overly dramatic tone. “I want you to accompany Chief O’Brien and the rest of the away team to Empok Nor. A plasma manifold has been damaged, and the parts we need to repair it can’t be replicated. We have to find a replacement from another Cardassian station. I’ve been told that Empok Nor will be rigged with booby-traps which specifically target non-Cardassians. You’re the only Cardassian on this station who would be capable of disabling the security system.”  
  
“Aha.” Garak kept his voice dry and uninterested. “And what, exactly, would be my motive to volunteer for such a dangerous but otherwise dull task? _If_ you don’t mind my asking, Captain.”  
  
“What would you like?” Sisko leaned on the table with his hands. “I’ll do my best to grant any request you might have, provided it doesn’t contradict Federation law or put innocent lives in danger.”  
  
“No need to be so ominous, Captain,” Garak laughed. “Unless you fear that Quark might commit suicide should my business prove more attractive than his. I’d like some more space for my shop, if possible. I realize it’s not as simple a request as you were hoping for, but I’ve been looking at the newest sewing equipment and I think the current dimensions—”  
  
“It’s yours,” Sisko said, grinning widely. “I’ll get a construction crew together as soon as you get back.”  
  
And so a few days later, Garak found himself playing Kotra with Nog en route to the abandoned Cardassian station. Playing against the Ferengi was too easy; Garak’s mind wandered to what he might find on the station. Shuttlecraft, perhaps? Weapons? Anything he might use to his advantage in ensnaring Dukat. He had had enough of waiting around in helplessness. There had to be something he could make use of. Certain technologies which had perhaps been removed from Terok Nor when it became Deep Space Nine and was molded to serve the Federation’s idealism.  
  
Garak was brought out of his plotting when he noticed Nog’s hand moving.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Regrouping,” Nog said stiffly.  
  
“But you’re losing,” Garak pointed out.  
  
“That’s why I have to protect my assets.”  
  
“This is _not_ a financial transaction,” Garak said with exasperation. “Protecting your assets is what got you into trouble in the first place. You have to go on the offensive, you have to _attack!_ ”  
  
Nog ignored him. “Your move.”  
  
Garak blinked his eyes rapidly as if visually offended by Nog’s lack of assertiveness. Truthfully, he felt a lot more disgust than was warranted at the way this game was going. “Oh this is maddening,” he muttered. “Asking a _Ferengi_ to play a Cardassian game is like asking a…a Klingon to chew with his mouth closed!” He plucked the dice from the board and rolled them with an impatient flick of his wrist. “Kotra is not about regrouping, or hoarding assets,” he said in a sharp whisper, punctuating each phrase by snapping a piece down on the board. “It’s about bold strategy—” _click_ “—and decisive _action_.”  
  
Nog looked unmoved, even as Garak captured two of his pieces.  
  
“Chief!” Garak called over his shoulder. “Would you like to take on the winner? I’d love to play Kotra against the hero of Setlik Three.”  
  
“What is that supposed to mean?” O’Brien’s voice came from behind Garak—the Chief was sitting on the other side of the room, reading some recreational material.    
  
“Oh, we all know your distinguished war record!” Garak was baiting the Chief without any provocation, but he was too bored and restless to care. “How you led two dozen men against the Barrica encampment and took out an entire regiment of Cardassians! If you play Kotra with half that brazenness, we’d have quite a match.”  
  
So much for Bashir’s professional medical opinion, Garak thought. Repressed grief—this was no grief, it was a burning, impatient rage for justice. Justice for Cardassia. He couldn’t wait to get off this ship, just to be doing something… something other than being plain simple Garak, the lonely eccentric tailor.  
  
“I’m not a soldier anymore,” O’Brien protested. “I’m an engineer.”  
  
“I see! So when you and Doctor Bashir go into the holosuites for hours at a time… you’re just repairing them?”  
  
O’Brien could tell he was being goaded. “What’s your point, Garak?”  
  
“I’m just curious!” Garak protested, still pretending to be interested in his game with Nog. “Why do you and Doctor Bashir spend hours in the holosuites, dressed as fighter pilots… reliving ancient battles?”  
  
“We… do it for fun. It’s a game!”  
  
“And so is Kotra,” Garak said calmly, capturing another of Nog’s pieces before swiveling in his chair to look directly at O’Brien. “And I’d love nothing more than to play against a man like you.”  
  
O’Brien stared at him cautiously from across the room. “Maybe some other time.”  
  
Garak smiled very slightly before turning back to his current game. It gave him some satisfaction to know he was putting O’Brien off. _I’m glad you’re here_. O’Brien had said that to him when he’d boarded, and even though the Chief had later assured him that he would not in fact be inviting him to dinner in the future, Garak couldn’t help but be troubled by the implications of the phrase. It wasn’t just Doctor Bashir who assumed Garak had developed similar ideals and loyalties to his own—it seemed to be a common assumption among most of the station’s inhabitants who were familiar with him. And while their ignorance could prove advantageous, Garak only found himself revisiting his failed assassination attempt over and over, haunted by Ziyal’s tearful face.


	11. In Fatal Flux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place during and has some dialogue taken directly from episode 5x24 (Empok Nor)

It was not without a sense of irony that Garak found himself in the middle of hemming a shirt when they made their final approach toward Empok Nor. He needed to plan ahead for whatever options opened to him, and he could think better when working, or so he reasoned.  
  
After informing the crew of how idiotic the idea of beaming aboard was, Garak went to don a space suit in preparation for the task at hand. The claustrophobic feeling of the suit was surprisingly easy to bear, knowing that soon he would be disarming traps and infiltrating the station’s central security net. It became harder once his magnetized boots had clamped down on the floor of the docking station and he began the complicated process by flashlight. As his mind settled into a familiar alertness and working rhythm, images of the asteroid prison camp began to surface in his mind: images of Bashir, and the feeling of the doctor’s hands steadying him when the world swirled around him like a sandstorm in the Mekar Wilderness. With it came an echo of the overwhelming despair of that time and place. Tain remained in the memory only as an absence, and yet it was a heavy absence, like a room that has gone too silent.  
  
The silence rang in Garak’s ears in the moments when he held his breath, wanting respite from the constant reminder that he was trapped in this suit and his breath never went further than a few inches from his face.  
  
There. The booby traps were disabled. Garak accessed the internal sensors and summoned a display of the station’s structure and available systems. He only had a few minutes to absorb anything useful before the Chief would start to get worried. No shuttlecraft in the cargo bays. Garak exhaled in a frustrated hiss and brought up reports of the station’s firepower; all had been taken out when it was abandoned, except for automatic armaments for internal security and the self-destruct mechanism. Garak flipped through a few more screens before deciding that anything of further use could be investigated casually while looking for salvageable parts. He hefted open a compartment and pulled the lever to re-engage the artificial gravity and life support systems. The lights came on all at once in the corridor Garak was in, but left it dim as Cardassians preferred. He went back to the screen to wait until the oxygen reached safe levels.   
  
He took his helmet off and his own breath stopped assaulting his ears. The steady hum of the station’s technology felt soothing, so he sat down to wait for the others after taking the comm. badge he’d been lent from his pocket: “All clear, Chief. Well, the worst of it, anyway.”

...

Garak blessed his luck when he was assigned to work with Boq’ta. The soft-spoken Bolian had been in his shop before and Garak had always been amazed that such a compliant and tentative person had made it into Starfleet. Then again, the Federation valued conformity in its own way, Garak reminded himself. Boq’ta would be easy to direct and wouldn’t ask too many questions if they strayed a little to investigate anything which caught Garak’s interest.   
  
Like now, for instance. As they reached the promenade, Garak braced a hand against the central support of the spiral stairs leading to the mezzanine, and quickly drew it away with an impulsive “urgh!”   
  
“What’s this?” he mused half to himself as he rubbed the bluish gel between his fingers. It had come off the rail onto his hand.  
  
Boq’ta hurried back down the stairs to pass his tricorder over the stuff. “It’s a biogenic compound.”  
  
“I wonder where it came from,” Garak murmured. Perhaps a discharge from a biogenic weapon, a weapon undisclosed to the rest of the Cardassian military? A weapon he could use against the Dominion? Or—perhaps more effective—a secret he could use to manipulate Dukat?  
  
He knew Boq’ta’s specialization wasn’t in medicine, and for half a second he caught himself wishing Bashir were there to analyze the compound for him. He glanced over at the infirmary; a pale light came from between the door panels. There would be equipment in there he could use.  
  
“Follow me,” he commanded Boq’ta in an undertone.  
  
But the moment he entered the infirmary, he nearly forgot about the compound on his hand. The displays at the back of the room were fritzing and full of static as if they had been in the middle of receiving a transmission when they went down. Instead of the usual biobeds, there were three large tubes in the middle of the room—stasis tubes, as Boq’ta astutely observed a moment later. The casing on one was cracked. A beam had fallen from the ceiling and broken through where the edge had made impact. Garak hefted it away and opened the tube.  
  
A Cardassian skeleton lay inside. Garak guessed that he’d been dead for at least a year. The sight was unexpectedly harrowing, and Garak was startled when the usually inhibited Bolian reached down and plucked something from the skeleton.  
  
“Hey, look at this,” Boq’ta said, seeming perfectly unperturbed by the dust he blew off it.  
  
“Interesting.” And Garak was interested.   
  
Boq’ta smiled at his find. “Regimental badge.”  
  
“Third Battalion, First Order, if I’m not mistaken,” Garak glanced between it and the skeleton, his uneasy feeling growing.   
  
Boq’ta didn’t notice. He was grinning. “This is gonna make Pechetti’s day.”  
  
Garak barely heard him, eyes roving over the infirmary. “Both those tubes have been activated recently.”  
  
Finally Boq’ta seemed to get it, and his grin disappeared. Garak glanced over at the door and scanned the darkness beyond, a familiar tension prickling his neck ridges. He hesitated. If he told O’Brien his suspicions now, it might eliminate any further chance at scouring the station for tools to defeat Dukat. If he didn’t, the Chief and the rest of the crew might end up dead. Gritting his teeth, Garak stood ill at ease, trying to find a third option.   
  
Boq’ta was nervous. “If they were activated recently, then… then that means someone was here before us.”  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
“Or else… it was just something automatic, something set to activate when the station’s power came back online?”  
  
Garak glanced at him skeptically. “Why set stasis tubes to activate at all if no one was inside them?”  
  
“Shouldn’t we tell Chief O’Brien?” Boq’ta asked.  
  
And there it was. No matter how timid he seemed, Boq’ta wouldn’t be fooled into believing that the Chief should stay uninformed. “Yes, I think we’d better,” Garak said softly, and took out his comm. badge again.  
  
“Garak to O’Brien.”  
  
“Go ahead,” replied the Chief’s voice.  
  
“Could you come down to the infirmary? There’s something you should see.”  
  
“On my way.”  
  
“Watch the door,” Garak advised. “And keep your phaser ready.”  
  
“What are you doing?” Boq’ta asked nervously.  
  
“Hopefully… finding answers.” Garak began trying to access the controls for the static-filled displays, and managed to clear the image on one of them. It was a display from about a year ago, showing what Garak assumed to be the decline of vital signs in the three stasis tubes the last time they’d been active. Unable to clear the other screens, Garak tried to pull up more information on the first but it locked him out with an encrypted message.   
  
“I hear footsteps!” Boq’ta squeaked. Garak whirled and peered out onto the promenade.  
  
“It’s alright. It’s Chief O’Brien.” He recognized the man’s outline.  
  
The Chief shoved the doors open wider and stopped short as he came in. “What’s all this?” He looked around at the stasis tubes, bewildered.  
  
“A very good question, Chief. They’re stasis tubes, and they’ve been recently activated, except for this one, which met a, ah… rather unfortunate end.”   
  
O’Brien stared fixedly at the Cardassian skeleton for a few seconds before blinking hard and turning away. “Alright, how could the other two have been activated recently? How recently?”  
  
“Very recently,” Garak nearly whispered. “In fact-”  
  
“Nog to Chief O’Brien!” The Ferengi’s voice broke shrilly into the quiet.  
  
“What is it, Nog?” O’Brien said. “I’m at the infirmary.”  
  
“Sir, the runabout! It drifted loose from the docking clamps—and—and it _exploded_ , sir!” 

...

“I’m very sorry about the runabout, sir!” Nog said as he jogged after O’Brien. “I should have been paying more attention!”   
  
They had split up again, and now Garak was stuck with these two on the way to Cargo Bay Four. He and Nog were to guard O’Brien as he worked to set up the signal generator so they could send an S.O.S. to Deep Space Nine.   
  
“I said to stop calling me sir,” O’Brien grumbled. “It’s not your fault. Stop apologizing. If you hadn’t forgotten the flux coupler, we wouldn’t have found out the situation so quickly. I’d say we’re having pretty good luck considering the circumstances. Let’s hope it holds out.”  
  
“Yes sir! I mean—Chief!”    
  
Garak came along behind them, walking sideways half the time to watch their backs with phaser in hand. “I’m not sure I share your optimism, Chief. The Third Battalion’s reputation is well-earned.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, ‘Death to All,’ I heard what Pechetti said. But if we hadn’t found out about the runabout so quickly, we wouldn’t have realized that we’re probably being hunted down as we speak.”  
  
“I thought _that_ was made quite clear by the open stasis pods in the infirmary,” Garak said lightly. “But either way, I suggest we keep our voices down if we don’t want to attract their attention prematurely.”  
  
“Yeah,” O’Brien breathed, and after that, they went silent until they reached their destination.   
  
Their footsteps seemed ridiculously loud to Garak’s hyper alert ears and he was startled by shadows once or twice as they entered the cargo bay. It had been a long time since he had felt this much adrenaline. It surprised him a little. True, the Third Battalion had a frighteningly effective track record, but he was a better survivor than the average Cardassian. No, he didn’t feel afraid, not in the same panicked way as he felt when claustrophobic. He was alert, awake… aware.   
  
As O’Brien settled down to work, Garak put his phaser away and settled into position to watch the entrance as Nog vigilantly patrolled the room, ducking dramatically between the dark rows of storage compartments. Garak’s hand itched where the compound had touched it, and he vaguely remembered wiping the goo off on his pants. He needed to analyze the compound, but he didn’t want to tell the Chief or Nog about it until he knew for sure what it was and whether or not he could appropriate it for use against Dukat. He rubbed his fingers against his palm to soothe the itch.   
  
“Aren’t you curious, Chief?” he asked in an undertone.  
  
“Hm? About what?” O’Brien was kneeling down to open an access panel.   
  
“About the occupants of those stasis tubes! If you ask me it’s all very unusual. I’d like to go back to the infirmary and see if I can access the medical records, to find out why there were three members of the Third Battalion locked away on this abandoned station. It doesn’t make any sense, surely you see that?”  
  
“The files on the computers have probably been wiped,” O’Brien said dismissively. “Besides, Stolzoff’s guess is as good as mine. They probably were left here to guard the station. It’s the only logical explanation.”  
  
“I’m not convinced Stolzoff was right about our Cardassian friends,” Garak protested, more loudly than he knew O’Brien or Nog was comfortable with. But he was getting excited. “Why would _anyone_ voluntarily seal themselves into a stasis tube—perhaps for years!—just to guard an abandoned station? Even the Third Battalion isn’t that fanatical. Something else is going on.”  
  
This was the kind of key he’d been waiting for, the missing piece that would bring his goal within reach. There was something about this station, something that its former occupants must have wanted hidden from the general public, but still accessible at some point should they decide they needed it…   
  
“Maybe so,” O’Brien was saying, “But I don’t intend to be here long enough to find out what it is.”  
  
“That’s the trouble with humans: you don’t know how to enjoy a good mystery!”  
  
The itch was a nuisance but the question of the compound could wait. He had to unravel this other mystery first, snatch up this opportunity; he could feel it deep within his body, a thrilling certainty. His heartbeat quickened.  
  
“I _love_ a good mystery!” O’Brien argued. “The kind I can read in bed… not the kind that’s trying to kill you.”  
  
“Don’t get me wrong, Chief,” Garak said, “I want to get off this station as much as you do, but I just know, if I don’t _figure this out,_ it’s going to nag at me for days….”  
  
“Alright now,” O’Brien said, like telling his daughter it was time for bed. “Let’s concentrate on finishing this signal modulator so we can get out of here. You have the whole trip home to sort out your mystery.”  
  
O’Brien looked at Garak expectantly, and Garak remembered that his technical skills were probably no longer a secret. He gave the Chief a questioning look anyway. O’Brien stared grumpily for a moment before giving up and calling over his shoulder. “Nog? I need your help with the phase discriminator.”  
  
“On my way, Chief,” Nog called from somewhere to the left.  
  
As the Ferengi’s footsteps approached, Garak thought he detected a second set of footsteps much quieter than the first. He peered into the darkness but saw nothing out of the ordinary. It could have been an echo, but then again….  
  
Garak could barely resist wandering off to check the area. Instead, he backed into the surrounding darkness, trying to disappear as much as possible despite O’Brien’s revealing presence just feet away. Perhaps it was best to have the bait situated close to the trap, if only they would fall—  
  
“ _Stolzoff to O’Brien!_ A CARDASSI-” Stolzoff’s voice over the comm. badge was interrupted by a clamor of noise which included several cries of pain.  
  
O’Brien jumped to his feet. “Stolzoff?” he cried in return, facing Garak but not looking at him. “Stolzoff!” His eyes met Garak’s and at almost the same moment they turned to head for the Habitat Ring. Nog scrambled after them, rifle in hand.

...

The sight of both Pechetti and Stolzoff lying dead in separate sections of the habitat ring was no surprise to Garak. What else could one expect from the Third Battalion? But as he listened to the frightened whining of Boq’ta, and turned his head this way and that, carefully watching their surroundings, he felt uncomfortable. They were in the open. His idiotic comrades were like bright silhouettes carved out against a dark horizon, and he wanted nothing more than to remove himself from their company. But he resisted that instinct strongly. He was afraid for them. He didn’t want to abandon them.  
  
The feeling echoed memories of giving in to Ziyal when he should have pushed her away, should have moved on Dukat when he had the chance… shouldn’t have been “careless” in covering his tracks on the Defiant when he was about to destroy the Founder’s homeworld. He felt sweat begin to gather on his face and palms and his breath come ragged. What had he allowed to take hold of him like this? What kind of self-destructive _sentimental_ —   
  
“What if I send Garak with you, too?” O’Brien’s voice jerked Garak out of his wave of panic, and he glanced over at Boq’ta who looked like he was about to wet himself. “Would that make you feel better?” The Bolian was nodding before O’Brien had even finished his sentence.  
  
“I’m flattered,” Garak said, “But I’m afraid I have other plans.”  
  
“What’re you talking about?” O’Brien huffed.  
  
Garak let his voice go harsh and soft. “I don’t intend to stand around waiting to be killed.” As he said it, he rubbed his throat, which felt constricted. It itched there, too. He had no more time or patience for Federation dallying.   
  
“Meaning _what?_ ” O’Brien’s voice went hard in turn.   
  
“Meaning I’m going after those two Cardassian soldiers… to neutralize them. Besides, all this _whining_ is giving me a _headache!_ ” He lifted his hand to his head as he began to walk away, and it was true—the dull grinding, throbbing feeling that he’d become accustomed to was heightening into something sharper, something which filled his whole body with tension. He thought of the compound again and his stomach jumped. No more wasting time. He would find the answers to both these mysteries.  
  
The sound of a phaser rifle being cocked made him freeze in his steps.  
  
“You’re gonna have more than a headache if you don’t do what the chief wants,” said Amaro, another of those over-confident under-experienced small-time officers. Garak felt a strange thrill, and decided it must be because he had finally decided to let his four surviving team members take care of themselves. He had no obligation to pander to the desires of these idiots!  
  
“Amaro,” O’Brien called in a warning tone.   
  
The light mounted atop the rifle never wavered.  
  
“You’d like to shoot me,” Garak said calmly, only turning his head slightly but standing his ground. “Wouldn’t you? You’re _dying_ to kill a Cardassian. Any Cardassian!”  
  
“Let him go!” O’Brien insisted, as if Garak were a prisoner. And Garak realized suddenly that yes—that’s how it had always been.  
  
The light on the rifle turned off with a click as Amaro drew it back.   
  
O’Brien moved into Garak’s range of vision. “If he thinks he can neutralize the Cardassians, let him try. He’d be doing us all a favor.”  
  
“That’s the spirit!” Garak cheered quietly, a grin spreading across his face. “Why don’t you come with me, Chief? Kill a few Cardies. It’d be like old times. Wouldn’t you like to avenge their deaths?” He gestured to the white sheet covering Stolzoff’s body.   
  
“No,” O’Brien said. “I just want to get everyone home.”  
  
“You’re fighting your instincts,” Garak said. His voice was low and nearly purring with confidence. “I can see it. But the hero of Setlik Three is still inside there somewhere.”  
  
O’Brien’s stony expression never changed. “If you’re gonna go… go.”  
  
Garak swayed on his feet for a moment, smiling, like a snake waiting to strike, then turned and hurried away, his steps feeling light and becoming more silent as he distanced himself from the others. At last, he could get down to the business at hand without burdens or distractions!  
  
He headed straight for the infirmary. He could do both at once from there—find out about the compound while luring his prey. The computer was waiting for him, and soon he had a few of the consoles working and could set about trying to crack the security code. As he worked, he talked loudly to himself. Let them think he was a bumbling overconfident idiot like the rest of them! He could hear everything, could sense the air currents wafting through the rooms via the circulation system—he would know when they were coming.   
  
“Access Denied,” he said, when the computer flashed that exact message at him. “Well, isn’t that nice.” He tried again. “Access Denied. Alright.” Another try. “Access Denied… Access Denied… Access Denied… .”  
  
A momentary image of Bashir’s face came to mind and the sweat on his face and hands turned cold. The tightness in his throat came back. He tried another code and reached up to rub his neck, his jaw clenching.”Access Denied… Access… Denied… don’t you know how to say anything else?” The computer bleeped at him again. A shiver went through his body and he exhaled hard. “Apparently not.” It must be the compound. It was creating these physical symptoms.  
  
He froze suddenly. No, something had triggered that shiver—the sense of being watched. He listened but heard only silence. “Access Denied… Access Denied….” He felt the footsteps rather than heard them. “Access Denied.” They were like raindrops at the very edge of audibility. “Access… Denied! How… monotonous!”   
  
There. They were close now. Garak moved swiftly and silently to the broken stasis tube. He was so intent on the footsteps of the approaching Cardassian that he didn’t feel a hint of claustrophobia as he lay inside, even as he had to force his breathing lower. He could see the warped blur of the Cardassian’s figure approaching the console he’d just left.   
  
The soldier circled the periphery of the room slowly. Garak’s mind was leaping bounds ahead of him. He would capture the soldier, interrogate him until he knew everything about the situation, the compound, the station—Tain’s voice rang in his ears. _I never met anyone else who relished a good interrogation as much as you did._ The sweat trickled down Garak’s neck and every nerve in his torso seemed to hum, every muscle constricted.   
  
The soldier walked right past the stasis tube Garak was in—close enough to touch. One step, then another, then another….  
  
The tube slid open and the soldier turned. “Looking for me?” Garak asked; the phaser in his hand sent a beam straight to the other Cardassian’s chest. The phaser in his hand was Cardassian, but he barely registered this as unusual—that was as it should be, and it had been set to kill. The soldier’s death cry, the way he flopped onto the ground, was comical, and Garak nearly laughed, feeling a sense of triumph as if he had just burst through chains with pure strength. But this was cleverness. Better than brute force, always. He had always been clever. Tain knew that. And ruthless. That’s what had always made him valuable. That was always it.  
  
“That felt… good,” Garak said to the empty room. As the last word left his lips, a shadow of his earlier panic brushed over him like a draft. His eyes went to the phaser. How had it come into his hand? He had been equipped with a Federation weapon before. It was still on his belt. He shifted, looking down at the dead body he’d shoved aside to make room for himself in the pod. Of course. It was the dead Cardassian’s weapon.   
  
He rolled out of the tube and quietly made his way to the newly dead soldier on the floor. He checked the soldier’s vital signs. No, he was definitely dead. No use for interrogation. _Why did I—_  
  
Garak jerked to his feet, tearing the soldier’s badge off his chest and shrugging off the question. It was better this way. He could get answers more quickly. _Even if it won’t be as fun._ Garak shakily wiped his sweaty hands on the sides of his pants. He went to fetch a medkit and took out a laser scalpel, selecting a patch of skin by the soldier’s throat to cut off and insert into a medical scanning device he found in a compartment nearby. He had seen Bashir use a similar device before, and within a few minutes, the readings began to make sense.   
  
Psychotropic drugs. Massive amounts. Garak had seen similar readings somewhere—it didn’t matter to him where, but the memory came anyway. Lessons with Tain, long ago, the Cardassian sun glowing dull in the window as he reviewed how a drug’s protein structure could produce certain emotional and mental states, some more conducive to interrogation than others….  
  
The information swam through his head as he staggered through those early days of training, and gathered into one coherent word. _Xenophobic_. A word so often applied to Cardassians, a word which Garak had never known what to make of. It was in the nature of all living things to hold caution toward others—it was what kept them alive. The faces of his fellow students at the Bamarren Institute for State Intelligence flashed through his mind, the regnar who had taught him how to disappear, Tain’s satisfaction at his progress, and the crazed face of Dukat’s father as the interrogation went terribly wrong….  
  
Bashir’s face, hovering above his, concerned and stubborn as Garak sank to the ground, the implant in his brain like a live wire sending currents of pain through him….  
  
Garak wavered. _Xenophobic_. Phobia suggests fear. He was not afraid of anyone. The other soldier would die as quickly as this one had, and then they would all go—back—  
  
He snapped to his feet and hurried, disturbed that the drug might be taking effect. They had to get off the station before it ran its course—but did it really matter? He would kill the Cardassian and then the station would be his to do with as he liked! His boundaries would be secure and easy to protect. _But the others_ —The others were slow, incapable. _Unimportant_. He had to protect them. It was his duty as their team mate. _And a good excuse_. But they were part of his boundary, at least formally they had to be, it was the mission—  
  
Garak was back in Cargo Bay Four. His feet slowed automatically at the sound of O’Brien’s voice.   
  
“That doesn’t mean I like thinking about what happened then. I was a soldier, Nog. Sometimes, soldiers have to kill.”  
  
“Come now, Chief,” Garak said, turning on his flashlight so that Nog could see him coming from between the aisles. He knew they were talking about Setlik Three again. “Don’t be so modest.” Their faces amused him, all stark and startled in the white light. “You did a lot of killing.”  
  
“How did you get in here!” Nog demanded. “Both doors are secure!”  
  
“Secure is such a relative term, wouldn’t you agree?” Garak stepped toward Nog, noting his nervousness with satisfaction. “I’ve brought you something.” He turned to O’Brien and took out the badge. “If you don’t mind,” Garak murmured to Nog, who stood back uneasily to let him closer to the Chief. “I’m sure Pechetti would have appreciated it more, but….”  
  
O’Brien took the badge with furrowed brow. “Where did you get this?” he said softly.  
  
“Ah-from its former owner.”  
  
“You killed one of the soldiers?” Nog blurted.  
  
“One down, one to go,” Garak replied matter-of-factly, and launched into a brief explanation of what he had found out from the tissue sample.   
  
“My guess is that the soldiers who were left here were part of some sort of Cardassian military experiment. The High Command was probably looking for a way to further motivate their troops.”  
  
“So they gave them a drug to make them hate anybody but Cardassians,” O’Brien said thoughtfully.  
  
“Then why did they attack you?” Nog demanded.  
  
“Ah-that’s a good question,” Garak said quickly. _They didn’t attack me. But I knew they would. I attacked first. It’s Kotra. Attack to defend._  
  
Yes, that was it. He was attacking to defend these poor fools. He was attacking to defend everything—he would kill Dukat to protect everything….   
  
“Maybe it’s an experiment that went wrong,” O’Brien mused. “That’s why they were left in stasis.”  
  
Garak felt a jolt of dread.   
  
“They were uncontrollable,” O’Brien continued in his mulling undertone.  
  
He broke in. “I’d love to stay and hypothesize all afternoon, but once I’ve set my mind to a task, I hate to leave it unfinished.”  
  
O’Brien looked at him narrowly and suddenly got to his feet to face him as if expecting him to bite.   
  
“What is it, Chief?” Garak asked in overly gentle tones.   
  
“You look different,” said O’Brien.  
  
“How so?”   
  
“That’s not the face of a tailor.”  
  
Garak tilted his chin up carefully. “I’m not a tailor.” His voice was cold, and he glanced at Nog, seeing the dread on his face. “Not for the moment anyway,” he added more casually, with one of his practiced smiles.   
  
He left immediately, feeling their eyes on his back as he walked away. 

...

“You know, I once bought a suit from Garak. Turned out the sleeves were a little long. I remember being angry when I brought it in to be fixed.”  
  
“Is there a point to this story?”  
  
“If I’d known he was so dangerous, I never would have complained.”  
  
Garak rubbed at his throat, his entire body vibrating with adrenaline. He knew he was well hidden but there wasn’t the familiar calm of melting into his surroundings. He itched too much. Itching, itching—it was like a deep restlessness that came through from the bone, through the muscle, just below the surface of the skin. Boq’ta spoke softly to Amaro.  
  
“You think he’ll get that other Cardassian?”   
  
“I hope not… I want to get him myself. Stolzoff was my friend. We went to the academy together….”  
  
Garak tuned out the inane conversation and listened instead for his fellow predator. He would be attracted to these two—their speech and lack of attention to their surroundings, their overconfidence would all prove irresistible.   
  
Questions about the drug spun wheels in his mind. There was a chance he hadn’t really been infected—it would have been a small amount, and with only skin contact—but he felt different. But was that just his instincts finally waking up now that he’d learned how foolish sentiment and attachment truly was? Now that everything he’d worked for had been threatened once again by his failure to play the game right?  
  
 _They were uncontrollable. Uncontrollable. That’s why they were left in stasis._  
  
The Chief didn’t know anything of Cardassians. He had thrown away his battle experience. This was their natural state—the purest form of instinct, to protect one’s boundaries, to move against the enemy, to take pride in one’s aggression.   
  
_I’m doing it to protect—to keep from losing—_  
  
Footsteps.  
  
Garak’s head snapped around, eyes fixed on the silhouette of a Cardassian face. The soldier moved fluidly, confidently toward where Amaro was pacing with his rifle. Garak moved too, stalking the soldier, slinking easily after him.   
  
“If that _spoonhead_ gives me a chance…” Amaro’s voice faded in and out of Garak’s consciousness like a red flash of irritation. Suddenly, Garak remembered Pechetti’s obsession with Cardassian insignia, Boq’ta’s nonchalance at looting the corpse in the stasis tube, and Amaro’s gun pointed at his head. Amaro wanted to kill him. _That spoonhead_. They were all glad he was going after the Cardassian because who cared if he died in the attempt? They were probably hoping for his death… especially Amaro.   
  
Garak reached the spot where the soldier’s shadow had disappeared, and came around the corner of a storage barrel. Nothing. He had slipped away. Garak quickly sank back into the shadows.   
  
He watched as Amaro paced back up to the head of the corridor, his back toward Boq’ta.  
  
“Give me the coil spanner, would you?” Boq’ta called.  
  
Amaro began to rummage. “What does it look like?”  
  
The soldier came out of hiding, closing in on Boq’ta. Garak raised his phaser but he was transfixed, fascinated by the scene playing out before his eyes. 

“It’s got two pointy things on the end.”  
  
Why didn’t they see it? Were they blind? Were they deaf? Such pathetic creatures. No, it was natural that he feel nothing for them; he had barely exchanged words with them in the past—they were Federation lackeys. Surely Amaro heard the soldier approaching—but Amaro cared nothing for his comrades. He just wanted to kill all Cardassians.   
  
The soldier stomped down on Boq’ta’s face, then his throat, and the Bolian gave a muffled, weak scream which trailed off into spasmodic choking noises.   
  
Garak jerked out of his trance, stepped forward, and fired. The Cardassian fell. Amaro panted in fear as Garak walked slowly towards him, watching the corpse to make sure it was dead. Amaro bent breathlessly to look at Boq’ta, then turned away.  
  
“He asked me to get a coil spanner for him….” He straightened. “I just turned my back for a second!”  
  
Garak stared blankly at this man, this pathetic man who had let his comrade die, this pitiful man who spouted slurs and jokes to make up for everything he lacked, and who made excuses for his disloyalty. They couldn’t afford this kind of a traitor on their team. Amaro was playing a weakling to put him off guard, but underneath that deception, his fingers were itching to pull the trigger on Garak.  
  
He stepped toward Amaro who was leaning against the wall, winded. He took the tool gently from the man’s hand.  
  
“That’s a shame,” he said very softly. “And the worst part of it is… this isn’t a coil spanner.”  
  
He looked straight into Amaro’s eyes, registering the ridiculous expression of confusion, before he thrust the pointed ends of the tool between Amaro’s ribs.   
  
“It’s… a _flux_ coupler,” he said, above Amaro’s gasping cries.   
  
The man went down, staring at him, staring as if he were actually shocked.   
  
Garak fled the corridor. His team would understand when he explained—no, they wouldn’t; they would never believe him. Their Federation ideals would implicate him even though he knew, deep down, he knew that Amaro was planning to kill him. They would all be his enemies now, all because he had done what needed to be done. That was the measure of their loyalty.  
  
But as he ran, the panic became overwhelming. He was a coward, he was turning his back on everything he lived for—no, he was losing himself, that’s how Bashir would put it, but it was Bashir, that infuriating Doctor, him and his Federation, him and Ziyal and the disgusting, ridiculous hesitation that would cause him to lose everything, just as before, just as when he had lost everything the first time—just as when he lost everything for the last time—  
  
The pain in his chest and head and throat exploded into ecstatic, calculated rage, and it was as if a blockade came down in his mind, and everything fell into place at once. He could see the way to his salvation. He would kill everyone, remove all obstacles, and use the system for sending distress calls which O’Brien had rigged to contact the nearest Cardassian ships. Then, once they arrived, he would subdue them, kill them all if necessary, and commandeer a vessel. From there it would be easy to infiltrate the Dominion. He could pose as a loyal survivor of a Federation attack, alter data files on the ship he took, destroy Dukat, destroy the Dominion, destroy everything...then it would stop, then he would be in control of his own fate!  
  
It was so simple. He didn’t know why he hadn’t seen it before. Tain was right—had always been right. Sentiment clouded the mind, so that he had been blind to even the most obvious path.


	12. Self Destruct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the events in Chapter 10 and 11... takes place during and has parts taken directly from episode 5x24 (Empok Nor).

For the first time in his life, Garak felt completely free to trust his own actions. There was no second-guessing, for everything laid itself out before him like a map of actions and reactions. Even when he found himself crawling along the floor picking up stray pieces from an abandoned Kotra board, he knew where that action fit into what would happen next.  
  
“Garak to Chief O’Brien,” he called cheerfully through the comm. badge on his sleeve as he put the last piece in place. “You’ll never guess what I just found. A Kotra board! The station commander left one in his office—the pieces were scattered all over—but I found the last one hiding under his desk.”  
  
Silence was his only response. But he knew they were listening.  
  
“I can’t help thinking what a perfect metaphor this game is for our present situation, hmm? Two players, two minds, two strategies… each trying to outmaneuver the other, _testing_ the enemy’s defenses… advancing, retreating…. The only difference is that in the game we’re playing… the stakes are life and death. Which makes it _so much more_ interesting!” A laugh came from him unexpectedly, as he realized that this was truly what it was about. All these years, he’d been fruitlessly trying to avoid the truth, and had suffered for it—the truth of his own nature, of Cardassia’s nature. He had truly been Tain’s son all along, and now he would also defy the stifling influence he’d had over his life since birth. This game with O’Brien would be the starting point, the testing ground for his new life.  
  
“I haven’t had this much fun in _years!_ ” he cried breathlessly through the intercom as he paced around the Kotra board and back into hiding, as natural as slipping into water. “My heart’s pounding, the blood’s _racing_ through my veins! I feel _so alive_. And I wager… so do you.”  
  
He knew they had arrived before the door opened. O’Brien and the Ferengi blundered into the room and quickly split up—so foolish, Garak thought. This would be so easy. He reached up once O’Brien had crossed beyond the threshold and hit the controls to close the door between the two areas before pouncing at Nog. The little Ferengi was surprisingly strong, but it only took a few seconds to wrestle the rifle from his small hands and point it at his oversized head.  
  
“It looks like I’ve captured your last piece, Chief,” Garak called triumphantly through the door. Nog knew better than the run. “If you want it back, you’re going to have to _take_ it from me.”  
  
He backed up smoothly, pulling the stumbling Ferengi after him. They headed toward the habitat ring, where Stolzoff and Pechetti had died.  
  
“Why are you doing this?!” Nog hissed.  
  
“Ah-ah-ah,” Garak said, pressing the barrel of the rifle against Nog’s ear and lowering his voice to a soft undertone. “I suggest you keep quiet.”  
  
Nog complied, even as Garak ushered him into a hidden nook off one of the corridors.  
  
“It’s your move, Chief,” Garak continued in a louder tone after he had fetched some heavy duty mesh to tie Nog up with. “What are you going to do? Attack? Retreat? Surrender?”  
  
“Listen to me Garak, it’s the drug!” O’Brien said. “It’s affecting you. You’ve got to fight it.”  
  
“Fight it?” Garak gave a short laugh as he finished securing Nog’s arms against his body. “But I’m enjoying myself—this is the most _exciting_ game I’ve played in years.”  
  
“It’s _not_ a game!”  
  
“Ah, but it is! And the best thing about it is that it brings out the player’s true nature.”  
  
“Where are you, Garak?”  
  
“I saw the look in your eyes when I took the Ferengi away from you. You wanted to kill me, you wanted to _strangle_ me with your bare hands.”  
  
O’Brien’s voice was soft and slightly pleading. “I just want my crewman back, that’s all.”  
  
“You’re a killer!” Garak shot back. “Admit it! We both are!” He scanned the opening of his hiding place, waiting for O’Brien to show his face any second. “Behind your Federation mask of decency and benevolence, you’re a predator… just like me.”  
  
“No.” O’Brien’s voice came softly, haltingly, over the comm. link. “I’m nothing like you.”  
  
“Ohhh, but you are!” Garak nearly crooned. “You proved that on Setlik Three—how many Cardassians _did_ you kill, ten, twenty, a _hundred_?”  
  
“I don’t remember!” He was getting to the Chief. O’Brien’s voice was getting rough.  
  
“Oh but you remember _how_ you _felt_. The Cardassians were killing your men, you had to stop them, you had to make them pay! _Blood_ for _blood_!” Garak’s voice grew more venomous with each word, snarling into the empty air where O’Brien still did not show his face. He lifted his sleeve closer to his mouth so he could hiss into it. “ _You enjoyed killing them, didn’t you? You enjoyed watching the life drain out of their eyes._ ”  
  
“Alright Garak, you want to finish this game! Fine! Let’s finish it! You and me, face to face.”  
  
“Nothing,” Garak breathed, “would give me greater pleasure. We’ll meet on the promenade.”  
  
“No weapons!” O’Brien growled.”  
  
“No… weapons….” Garak echoed, panting slightly in excitement, the sweat still beading hotly on his face. He turned slowly toward Nog, longing in his voice. “You have no idea how hard it is not to pull this trigger.” The barrel of the rifle drifted back toward Nog’s head. “But I need you alive.”  
  
Nog’s face was a mixture of hatred and terror, teeth bared and eyes wide as Garak made him walk with him and secured him to the wall before setting about work. Even when Nog saw the way Garak hung the dead bodies of the other crew members from the mezzanine, he didn’t say a word. His little eyes grew wide but he just clenched his pointed teeth and glared at Garak.  
  
O’Brien arrived quickly. Garak saw the light from his rifle sweeping across the open spaces of the promenade, pausing briefly on the faces of each of his comrades.  
  
“They’ve come to cheer you on chief,” Garak announced wryly. “Your loyal team. Apparently, they’ve forgiven you for getting them all killed.”  
  
The light went out. Garak knew O’Brien was making his final approach.  
  
“My supporters may be fewer in number,” Garak went on, “but they’re no less loyal.” The faces of Tain and others he had worked with in the Obsidian Order flashed across his mind. A shadow of confusion crossed his face unnoticed. O’Brien flashed his light in Garak’s face, rifle brought to bear. “I thought we agreed,” Garak said sternly. “No weapons.”  
  
“What’s that in your hand?”  
  
Garak looked down at his rifle, then at Nog’s chest where it was pointing. “Well how did this get here?” He said it in jest, but for a moment it was almost a genuine question. “But we won’t be needing these, will we?” Nog made a show of struggling against his bonds, probably wanting to impress the Chief with his indomitable spirit. “Put yours down,” Garak said to O’Brien.  
  
“You first.”  
  
“Put it down,” Garak said with deadly softness, “or say goodbye to the Ferengi.”  
  
“Don’t do it, Chief!” Nog said in strangled voice.  
  
“Oh, he has nothing to worry about,” Garak said teasingly. “I’m not going to shoot an unarmed man, what fun would that be?”  
  
O’Brien slowly lowered his rifle to the ground.  
  
“You wouldn’t happen to have another one… would you?” Garak asked.  
  
The Chief reached around to the back of his belt and put down his smaller hand phaser and tricorder.  
  
“Naughty,” Garak said, quietly chiding. “Naughty.”  
  
“Your turn,” O’Brien said softly.  
  
“I admit,” Garak said tensely, feeling the predatory urge rising. “I’m tempted to finish this right now… but that would be depriving myself of too much enjoyment.” He set the rifle down on a storage barrel and stepped toward the Chief, hands raised with fingers curled inward, like paws, ready to strike with the heel of his palm.  
  
He struck first. The Chief ducked, then blocked his next blow. Garak let him get a hit in before striking him hard, once in the face, then kneeing him in the stomach and using both hands for a hard stroke to the back of the neck. O’Brien hit the floor and rolled, unable to spring to his feet right away.  
  
“I’m disappointed, Chief!” Garak huffed. “I expected to see the bloodlust in your eyes, but all I see is _fear!_ ”  
  
O’Brien lunged to his feet and lurched toward Garak, but Garak scored a quick hit to the Chief’s throat, sending him backwards, then knocked him flat with another two-handed blow to the face and kicked him in the ribs. Blood trickled from the corner of O’Brien’s mouth as he clutched his side and braced his back against a barrel, groaning.  
  
“Maybe it’s true,” said Garak with disdain, feeling cheated. “Maybe you’re not a soldier anymore.”  
  
“You’re right,” O’Brien panted, looking up at him with a hint of a grin. “I’m an engineer.”  
  
He tapped his comm. badge and crawled behind a barrel. It was only a second before the Chief’s phaser detonated, and in that second, all that crossed Garak’s mind was confusion. The next thing he knew was a bright flash of light and sound, and pain that knocked him sprawling onto his back, delirious.  
  
The throbbing in his head multiplied tenfold, and spasms like being stabbed by needles rippled through his lungs with every breath. He was vaguely aware of voices—Nog and O’Brien. “Did you kill him?” The phrase passed through his mind without much consequence. He felt angry and blind, the instinct to fight welling up without an outlet. He couldn’t get his arms or legs to move and the ceiling was an indistinct, spinning blur of grey, black, and white.

...

Garak was out of it for a long while. He had periods of consciousness, but the pain had disoriented him. His words rarely made sense. The rest of the time, he was still, sometimes moaning or muttering in his sleep. O’Brien tried to monitor his condition with the medical tricorder they’d brought and even spent some time trashing the infirmary looking for equipment, but it was all Cardassian, and he didn’t know a thing about how to work it.  
  
Eventually, he had persuaded Nog—who was still traumatized—to help him construct a simple stretcher and carefully lift Garak onto it. When he tried to hoist Garak up by the arms, Garak moaned and whimpered so loudly that O’Brien nearly dropped him. But they managed to get him onto the stretcher, then the stretcher onto a bed where they could secure Garak in case he became conscious enough for a violent outburst.  
  
“How fast do you think the rescue team will get here?” Nog asked as they shared emergency rations.  
  
“They’re coming as fast as they can,” O’Brien reassured him.  
  
Garak slept fitfully but well enough that O’Brien was beginning to think they might get off the station without incident. Then, just as O’Brien received the long-awaited transmission of their arrival, he heard Garak’s breath wheezing on the bed behind him.  
  
“ _No—_ ” Garak began, but a sudden coughing fit interrupted him.  
  
“Don’t say anything,” O’Brien commanded. “I think your ribs are broken. The rescue team has just arrived, they’ll be joining us in a minute. They’ll fix you up.”  
  
Garak didn’t seem to hear him. “Lower the th-threshold!” he gasped, retching. “That’s en-nough for today—I’ve failed—I’ll try again tomorrow, Enabran…! _Please!_ ”  
  
“Hey, hang in there.” O’Brien raised his voice.  
  
“Turn it off! TURN IT OFF!” Garak begged, not opening his eyes, his head jerking from side to side. “Turn it off…! I could have done it! I could have— _please_! Turn it off… turn it off! You expect—so much—I can’t… I can’t be….” His chest was convulsing. “I never—ch— _Please—_ ”  
  
“GARAK! It’s me, Chief O’Brien! The one you wanted to kill, remember?”  
  
Garak’s arms strained against the restraints, clawing through the air toward his head. “Tear it _out_ —!”  
  
“Alright, just—just calm down, Garak!”  
  
“Be careful, sir!” Nog said nervously from the door.  
  
“It’s fine,” O’Brien shot back, leaning closer to Garak’s face. “Garak! Wake up! You’re on Empok Nor! What do you want me to turn off?”  
  
Garak’s eyes flicked open and he stared, panting. Slowly, his eyes focused on the Chief. “ _Get away from me!_ ” he snarled. “What are you doing?!”  
  
“I’m trying to help you. Just take it easy!”  
  
“Take it easy—says the man who has me strapped down for _torture_ ,” Garak’s voice was labored. His hands trembled and strained as he reached for O’Brien menacingly. “But you’re never going to get off this station if you don’t let me out. I’m the only one who can get past the traps, remember? You’re all going to die if you don’t let me out. LET ME OUT.”  
  
“You already disarmed all the booby traps,” O’Brien said, exchanging a nervous glance with Nog.  
  
Garak’s laugh was choppy, almost like sobs, but his face was distorted with hateful triumph. “Are you s-sure about that…? I might have just … put a few back where I found them … once you were on board.”  
  
“You’re bluffing,” O’Brien growled.  
  
“There’s a bomb set to go off!” Garak hissed with such an intense look that O’Brien stepped back slightly. “If you let me off this bed now, I can still disable it for you!”  
  
“Why would you tell me if there were? You want to kill everyone!”  
  
“Sir!” Nog interrupted. “We should warn the rescue team!”  
  
“He’s bluffing.”  
  
“LET ME OUT,” Garak yelled, straining against the straps again and falling back with a gurgle of pain and rage. “You… don’t want to take the risk…! Die now with your friends or die later without them, it doesn’t make a difference to me!”  
  
O’Brien hesitated a moment, then tapped on his badge. “O’Brien to Bashir.”  
  
“Bashir here.”  
  
“Garak says there’s a bomb or a booby-trap of some sort waiting for anyone boarding or leaving the station.”  
  
“Well… we’re already on our way to the infirmary, but we’ll scan the area as we go. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”  
  
Garak showed no response to Bashir’s voice. “You still have a few minutes to let me go! I would _take_ that chance if I were you!”  
  
“Shoulda known,” O’Brien muttered. “You’re a liar, always have been.” He paced next to the bed.  
  
“Sir, maybe we should—”  
  
“KILL ME then, you COWARD,” Garak shrieked. “Your empty threats—meaningless! Let’s have a fair fight! If you don’t let me out now I will hunt down your family, I will _murder_ them—”  
  
Before O’Brien knew what he was doing, he had his hand around Garak’s jaw. “Don’t you _ever_ threaten my family,” he said in a low voice.  
  
“Chief!”  
  
O’Brien turned to see Bashir and the rest of the rescue team standing in the doorway.  
  
“Chief,” Bashir said in a quieter voice. “Let go of my patient.”  
  
O’Brien instantly released Garak’s jaw and took a deep breath. “Good. You all got here safe. No booby traps?”  
  
“You’ll all die!” Garak raved. “You’ve brought in the firing squad, how nice! Like a herd of rabid targs!”  
  
“You see what I’ve been dealing with?” O’Brien said too loudly. “He threatened to murder my family.”  
  
“I know,” the doctor said, staring at Garak with a grim look. “I heard him as I walked in.”  
  
Bashir had prepared himself for this. Or so he’d thought. But hearing the words spoken in Garak’s voice and seeing the hatred in his face… he hadn’t expected it to feel so disturbing. Or so convincing. The last he’d seen Garak, they’d been chatting amicably, if a bit coolly, about ancient Roman architecture and clothing while sipping tea at the replemat.  
  
He swallowed and turned to Odo and the rest of the rescue team—a security officer and a nurse. “Let’s get him on the ship straight away.”  
  
Bashir motioned to the nurse and the security officer to follow him toward Garak’s bed. He could feel their hesitation as they approached. Garak’s eyes were wild but Bashir focused in on the blood-soaked bandage O’Brien had applied to his head. He was just a disturbed patient. That was all.  
  
Everyone jumped when Garak screamed.  
  
“DON’T TOUCH me you SICKENING _disease_ -ridden ALIENS! Bajorans!” He laughed the same choppy laugh. “Humans are almost as bad. Poetic justice! Go on, kill me, Bajorans! Take my neck bones and dangle them around yours! I hope they strangle you in your sleep! You had better get rid of the Changeling, though, or his love for the _order of law_ —” Garak sneered the phrase “—will prevent you from getting any satisfaction out of my death!”  
  
Odo narrowed his eyes at Garak. Bashir could only stare.  
  
“That’s right. I’m talking about you, Odo,” Garak said in a quiet, rattling voice. “The Changeling. The Founder. You hide behind false loyalty to the Federation, but deep down, your disposition is identical to the rest of your people—order the universe to fit your own desires and hatreds and petty biases! It only shows just how worthless the minds of Bajorans and Humans are that they still trust you after all this time!”  
  
“Garak!” Bashir snapped.  
  
Odo looked away for a moment, pretending to be more interested in a broken panel on the wall before he spoke. “It’s alright, Doctor. He’s not himself. We can’t treat anything he says as the truth,” he huffed.  
  
“I know you want to kill me!” Garak called. “Why, your species is the most bloodthirsty of all! Cardassians are like insects to them! Or is it that you can’t stand to see one standing up to you?! SO TAKE ME, CHANGELING. Take me back to the Dominion and offer me to them on a silver platter! Another Cardassian slave for you and your Great Link! Take me alive so they can interrogate me! Or use me as some kind of figurehead for their grand schemes!”  
  
Odo stood still throughout the entire rant.  
  
“What’s the matter, Odo?” Garak asked breathlessly with mock sympathy. “Shocked that I know where your loyalties lie? You’re a Founder. You can’t escape that!”  
  
“There’s no point trying to reason with you,” Odo said gruffly, and folded his arms.  
  
“What an appropriate attitude for a Founder to take toward a Cardassian!” Garak sneered. Odo jerked and opened his mouth, then closed it again, clenching his jaw.  
  
“Alright,” Bashir said stiffly. “I’ve heard enough.” He took out his hypospray.  
  
“Wait!” Garak nearly shrieked. Bashir froze. “Doctor, I’m fine.” Garak’s voice could hardly be called calm, but it was forcibly level. “I _just_ need you… to let me off this bed….”  
  
Bashir hesitated, and then took out his medical tricorder, wanting to get a clear reading of the damage. “Why?”  
  
“Don’t try to talk to him!” O’Brien interrupted. “He’s a lunatic!”  
  
“You don’t know, Doctor.” Garak’s voice was pleading. He gulped several times. “You don’t know what it’s been like. Trapped here. Trapped.” His voice cracked and his eyes flicked between each of Bashir’s. “Please… let me out. I promise I’ll come with you to the runabout.”  
  
“Don’t trust him!” O’Brien yelled.  
  
“He’s right, Doctor Bashir!” Nog put in. “Don’t let him up, he’s dangerous!”  
  
“I’m no threat!” Garak laughed unstably. “Look at me! I’m beaten!” A spasm of rage went across his face but his lips quivered back into a half crazed smile and his voice went from laughing to moaning in the same sentence. “I can barely speak, my head… feels like… it’s about to burst, so _please LET ME OUT_ of this BED!!”  
  
Bashir looked at Garak, then at his tricorder, then back at Garak’s face again, trying not to show the way his stomach was knotting up at what he saw in both places. “I promise we’ll let you out as soon as the effects of the drug are reversed. But for now—”  
  
“NO!” Garak screamed. “LET ME GO! DOCTOR!!” His voice suddenly changed again, from pleading to threatening. “If you don’t know, you pretend not to know, you’re on their side, you betrayed me to them—you knew this would happen and you wanted to prove to everyone that I was insane, you believe I’m insane—you’ve always thought humans are superior! Well surprise, Doctor! I’m going to kill us all right now! If you don’t let me go, I’ll activate the station’s self-destruct mechanism! I looked at the schematics when I came in! I had to disable the central security net! I KNOW the command codes for this station, and I can access them in a heartbeat!”  
  
Odo stepped close to Bashir and whispered: “He might not be bluffing about that.”  
  
“STEP AWAY FROM ME!” Garak demanded, voice becoming hoarse from all the yelling. “I DETEST YOU! THE FOUNDERS, THE BAJORANS, THE NAÏVE DOCTORS! Get away from me! You have two seconds!”  
  
“I’m sorry, Garak,” Doctor Bashir muttered, feeling sick, “But I’m going to sedate you now.”  
  
“One!”  
  
Bashir shot a hand forward to administer the hypospray, but Garak jerked his head toward it and lunged at Bashir, startling him with a furious yell like a battle cry. Bashir had to grab him by the jaw as O’Brien had done, but Garak was still surprisingly strong—Bashir only just managed to discharge the hypospray before Garak snapped at his hand, nearly biting his fingers off.  
  
“COMPUTER!” Garak bellowed. “INITIATE STATION SELF DESTRUCT, ACCESS CODE CHARABAN ONE FIVE—”  
  
Out of nowhere, Odo clamped a hand over Garak’s mouth—muffling the screams of inhuman rage which had burst out half a second before—while Bashir quickly scanned him again with a tricorder and administered another dose of sedative. Garak thrashed, blood smearing down the side of his face from under his bandage, but after a moment, he weakened and then… finally… stopped.  
  
Bashir stepped back with a deep grimace. “I forgot,” he mumbled to himself. “Cardassian physiology usually requires higher dosages.”  
  
Garak lay still. Bashir took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, covering his eyes with a hand before he went back into command mode. Together, he and the nurse lifted the stretcher Garak was on and began the long task of carrying him to the runabout.  
  
As he passed Odo, the constable’s head was bowed and his shoulders were even more rigid than usual. He was looking at his hand—the one he’d grabbed Garak with. O’Brien and Nog followed the rescue team out with guns in hand, ready to pre-emptively silence any more self-destruct attempts.

...

Once Bashir saw Garak onto the Rio Grande and made sure his condition was stable, he went with O’Brien and Bashir to retrieve the four bodies where they’d been left under the sheet. Bashir got a good look at their wounds while O’Brien told the gist of the story—Cardassian soldiers in stasis, hopped upon psychotropic drugs, killing one crewman after another… and Garak taking Nog hostage while raving about Kotra. Bashir listened and observed. Then they put the corpses into body bags and hauled them in silence to the ship’s cargo hold.  
  
“You said the third Cardassian soldier had decayed in the broken stasis tube?” Bashir asked, once they had finished and were standing alone in the docking area.  
  
“Yeah. Why?” said O’Brien.  
  
Bashir didn’t answer right away. He thought about the funeral preparations of Ghemor’s body and how strict Cardassian customs were regarding death. But the bodies were already desecrated by being viewed by non-Cardassians. If things had gone a little differently, he could be arranging for Garak’s burial at this very moment.  
  
“I’m wondering what to do with their bodies. The Cardassian soldiers.”  
  
“Oh yeah,” O’Brien said without much concern. “I s’pose we could jettison them. Or take them somewhere to be buried.”  
  
“Let’s take them with us for now,” Bashir said, feeling a tinge of discomfort at what he was thinking. An autopsy would provide a lot of information about Cardassian physiology as well as the effects of the compound. It could save lives, he reasoned, but it didn’t make him feel much better.  
  
“I think that would be best,” Odo agreed. “I doubt the Cardassian government cares to have them back if they were supposed to be a secret in the first place. They could give us clues about what else the High Command is capable of. Any information on their weaknesses could be useful.”  
  
Bashir nodded, suddenly catching a glimpse of what it must be like for Garak to work against his own species. And things were sure to only get worse from here on out.  
  
“So… two broken necks,” Bashir summarized grimly. “A crushed throat… and a stab wound. I’m surprised neither of the soldiers decided to steal a phaser—it would have been easier. What did they stab Amaro with? It looked like there were two points of entry.”  
  
O’Brien took a deep breath. “It was a flux coupler from the toolkit. And… it… wasn’t one of the soldiers who did it, Julian.”  
  
Bashir frowned. “What do you mean?”  
  
“It was Garak.”  
  
“Garak?” Bashir felt a chill in the pit of his stomach.  
  
“I didn’t want to say until the others could see he was under control,” O’Brien muttered. Odo was listening intently as well. “It would have probably made things worse if they’d rushed in, guns blazing. Maybe I’m just paranoid, but it’s this place… things got pretty tense here for a while. Amaro threatened to shoot Garak just because he wouldn’t obey my orders. I knew you wouldn’t want to take the chance of something like that… if you could save him.”  
  
Bashir stared at O’Brien’s reluctant expression and felt at a loss for words for a few moments. “Thank you,” he finally said. “I’m glad you waited.” Garak, stabbing Amaro. He knew it was the drug’s fault, but even so.  
  
O’Brien just nodded briefly. “I really thought he was going to kill Nog. You should’ve seen him. You should’ve heard him.”  
  
“Speaking of which,” Bashir interrupted, not wanting to dwell on this anymore, “I’d like to see you and Nog in the infirmary as soon as you’re ready.”  
  
“Go on, Chief,” Odo said. “I’ll handle the Cardassian bodies. I’d also like to examine the flux coupler Amaro was stabbed with.”  
  
“Sure,” O’Brien said in a distracted voice. “It’s lying down in auxiliary control. I’ll show you.” He turned back to Bashir. “You go on and see about Garak and Nog. I’ll be there soon.”

...

“There you go,” Bashir said, stepping back. “Good as new.” He slapped O’Brien on the back.  
  
“Thanks, Julian.” O’Brien grinned a tiny bit before glancing over at the bed where Garak was still unconscious. They were sitting in the Rio Grande’s sleeping quarters. “You sure you want to be left alone with him?”  
  
Bashir nodded once with a tired sigh. “He’s stable, but I may as well set to work mending what else can be mended while he’s unconscious. And… I also need to study the psychotropic compound that’s affecting his behavior so I can synthesize a medicine to neutralize it as soon as possible.”  
  
“Well, call security as soon as he wakes up. Obviously, he’s dangerous even when he can’t touch anyone.”  
  
Bashir said nothing to that, and was grateful when O’Brien didn’t push the issue. Instead, the Chief got up and clapped a hand to his shoulder briefly. “See you soon.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Then he was gone and the room went silent but for the hum of machinery. Bashir set to work and became lost in his own thoughts, losing track of time until the door opened and Odo came in.  
  
“Can I help you?” Bashir asked, setting down his medical instruments. “Don’t worry, Constable. He’s not waking up any time soon.”  
  
“It’s… not that, Doctor.” Odo avoided looking at him. “I… wanted to see how things are.”  
  
“Well, I haven’t had much of a chance to analyze the compound yet,” Bashir said, heading over to Garak’s bedside. Odo followed a few steps behind him. “So far, I’ve only been able to start taking care of his wounds.” He shook his head. “He’s an absolute mess. Concussion, three badly broken ribs, and lacerations from the shrapnel—the Chief incapacitated him with a makeshift bomb.” Bashir sighed heavily, brow furrowed. “And that’s just the physical part.”  
  
“But you’re sure it’s just because of the drug,” Odo said carefully.  
  
“Of course I’m sure,” Bashir said, sitting down at a tiny work table and looking up at Odo over laced fingers. “Garak always has some honorable motive for anything he does, even if it looks ambiguous to someone outside his culture. That’s why this is so disturbing. I keep trying to find a motive, out of habit… but I can’t.”  
  
“Mm.” Odo nodded briefly, staring at Garak’s face and still looking troubled. The cuts on Garak’s head had been healed, so the bandage was gone and his face was now clean, but he was covered by a sheet from the shoulders down. His clothing had been ruined by the bomb and the blood, and Bashir had had to remove his shirt anyway to extract the bits of metal from his skin.  
  
“He didn’t mean the things he said,” Bashir added suddenly. “And I’m sure when he’s back to normal, he’ll regret what happened more than anyone… even if he doesn’t say it.”  
  
“Garak has plenty of reasons to hate the Founders,” Odo muttered to himself as Bashir tapped through screens on the computer. “I’m not so sure his comments were completely random or insincere.”  
  
“Well… I _am_ convinced that they were not true,” Bashir said firmly. “No matter how they made us feel. They were false. Garak might be in the habit of lying, but that’s who he is. This compound and its effects are not.”  
  
Odo remained silent. Bashir continued to analyze results for a few minutes, then turned away from the screen.  
  
“Is there something still bothering you? You know that Garak understands you disagree with what your people are doing.”  
  
“Yes,” Odo said, in his softest voice. “But… I think he might still be afraid of me.”  
  
“Well, when he wakes up and is back to normal, you can ask him about all of that yourself. I’ll let you know when he’s ready.”  
  
Odo nodded, suddenly straightening a bit even though his posture was always near-perfect. “Thank you, Doctor. I think I’d like that.”  
  
The constable left the room with only one backward glance at the door. Bashir watched him go and then turned back to his work, simultaneously impatient for and dreading the moment he could bring the real Garak back into consciousness.

...

Consciousness came slowly. With it came vague memories of the assault, the sedation, and the poisonous, frantic anger. His nerves ignited with alertness. He heard a familiar voice and opened his eyes; it was Doctor Bashir. Suddenly, Garak remembered exactly where he had last been. The fury stormed through him and he spat words in a harsh snarl.  
  
“Ahahaha, it’s you. You… think you can talk me out of this, don’t you, I _know_ how your mind works, Doctor. You can try to _change_ me, you can flatter me all you like but the fact remains tha—tha—haaa!” Garak’s breath seized up as needles of pain pierced his lungs, and he found himself gasping. A strangled cry of anger and defiance surged through him but the resulting ache just left him more breathless than before.  
  
“Easy, Garak,” Bashir said, stern, his mouth a grim line as he discharged a hypospray into Garak’s neck. Garak jerked his head away, despite how any sudden movement made him nauseous.  
  
“Don’t— _touch_ me!” he snarled, his voice quivering with hatred. “You and your _Federation_ —you have your own agenda! I may have fallen for it before, but no more, Doctor!”  
  
Bashir didn’t say anything; he was focusing intently on his tricorder. Garak had a few seconds of silence in which to review the delirious memories of Empok Nor resurfacing in his mind. Abruptly, they vanished as if they never existed. This was his current situation, facing the enemy, and it required his full attention.  
  
“Well.” Garak took a slow breath and noticed the pain wasn’t as crippling as before, even if he was still restrained to the bed. “The truth comes out, at last. I should have seen it from the moment I met you… you’re the worst of them all.”  
  
Bashir’s eyebrows twitched a bit but he still didn’t look at Garak.  
  
“You’re clever, Doctor,” Garak seethed softly. “You’ve pretended to be something you’re not for most of your life. There’s something to be said for that. You’ve always been aware, haven’t you… of how people see you, and how you can use that to your advantage. But even your face doesn’t look as young and innocent as it used to. It’s beginning to suit you. So what’s your hidden motive now? You’ve used me before, to get information, all the while making me think—” Garak began to laugh bitterly. “Making me think that _I_ was the one using _you!_ ”  
  
Bashir finally looked up, his expression only slightly annoyed. “You shouldn’t talk too much. You’re exerting yourself.”  
  
“I feel fine, thanks to you!” Garak said in a mocking voice which quickly turned to quivering rage. “You are a parasite. On the surface, you play the part of the innocent idealist so well that even _I_ was fooled, but beneath all that, even you, _even you_ … are _rotten_.”  
  
Bashir kept his face and voice completely impassive. “I would ask what you’re talking about, but it’s obvious that the medicine I gave you to reverse the psychotropic compound’s effects is still making its way into your system.”  
  
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Doctor. If you want to console yourself with the idea that my criticism of you is the raving of a lunatic, then go ahead. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve tried to retreat into delusions or blamed the mental state of someone else for your trouble. But if you want to know the truth—and I mean the real truth—about what I think of you, then you had better pay attention. My mind is perfectly clear.”  
  
“Is that so?” Bashir said, rolling his eyes.  
  
“Yes,” Garak spat out. “And I would like nothing more than to see you pleading for your life right now. Or better yet, fighting for it. I want to see the real you, the one that wishes I were dead! You _want_ to torture me, don’t you? You enjoy seeing how far you can go in this act of friendship before the conflict drives me insane! You know my weak points, and like any good player, you _exploit_ them without hesitation! You think you hold some power over me, but a few years of eating lunches with you is nothing compared to a lifetime of Tain’s influence!”  
  
“I never thought it was. I wish I did know your weak points, Garak,” Bashir said grimly. “If I did, it would mean you trusted me, which is something that I’m seriously beginning to doubt will ever happen. Tell me what happened with Amaro.”  
  
Garak grinned broadly. “Changing the subject, Doctor? Clever, clever. I stabbed him… and left him to suffocate on his own blood.”  
  
It was only from watching Bashir’s face so many times that Garak could tell he was sickened. The way the expression changed was that subtle. “Why?” Bashir demanded.  
  
“Because he was a fool,” Garak whispered, a sudden chill racing through his body. A frantic edge crept into his voice. “Because he was going to kill me! That’s how it’s played, Doctor—attack! You have to anticipate your enemy’s moves and head them off! Oh, I can’t _believe_ I’ve never played a game of Kotra with you, but then, we’ve always been playing one, haven’t we?”  
  
“Why was Amaro going to kill you?” Bashir looked genuinely confounded by this.  
  
“And so he evades!” Garak laughed and glared at Bashir. “You know the answer, Doctor. You more than anyone have been my jailer in this prison of a life I have! You thought you could fool me into believing that I was wanted here—you _insult_ me by thinking I was desperate enough to let your attention lure me into complacency, even into serving the very people who look down on me, day after day! _As you_ look down on me!”  
  
“I’ve never looked down on you,” Bashir said firmly. “And I promise I’ve never tried to trick you into doing anything for the Federation.”  
  
“Don’t try to soften me with your meaningless _promises_ , Doctor!” Garak’s jaw was clenched. Suddenly his mind revisited the explosion that had beaten him. The weight of Amaro’s knees giving out as Garak stabbed him. The lust for violence he’d felt as he’d pointed the rifle at Nog’s head, and then his own desperation as he had screamed at the rescue party. His breath came shorter and shorter. “There is nothing to you that isn’t a sickening caricature. You want to mold me in the image of your own _revolting_ simplicity, but you’re too late! I’ve embraced what it is to be Cardassian! I’ve embraced what it is to be the Son of Tain!” His voice shook with disgust. “The minute I get out of this bed, you are going to be the first person I kill… and I will take pleasure in paying you back for all the years you’ve made me waste on this station.”  
  
The words came out of his mouth, and he told himself the trembling in his hands was for the anticipated kill, but he felt only fear. Pure, poisonous fear.  
  
“Well,” Bashir said, after a heavy silence. “I suppose if it’s taking this long for you to come to your senses, I had better settle in for a long night.” He reached over to check the medical device attached to Garak’s forehead ridges.  
  
“GET AWAY FROM ME!” Garak suddenly roared, throwing himself against the bed’s restraints and nearly fainting from the pain. “I never want to see your face again, you NAUSEATING fool! You have no idea—the things I’ve done—the person I am. You want to save me, Doctor, but all that really means is you want to ignore the truth—you want an ally WHO NEVER EXISTED! Over and over again, I’ve _tried_ to tell you, but you just keep coming back to this: you want to ERASE ME! You want to ERASE what it MEANS to be _ELIM GARAK! YOU WANT TO ERASE CARDASSIA FROM ME_!”  
  
His voice cracked and he struggled against Bashir’s hands as they forced him to keep still. The room was spinning after his outburst, and his head throbbed.  
  
“Alright, Garak!” Bashir had finally raised his voice. “That’s enough. You’re going to hurt yourself. How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t care about your past! I already understand who you were, but that’s not who you are now.”  
  
“Wrong, Doctor!” Garak gasped hoarsely, his eyes unable to settle on anything. “You have no idea how wrong you really are about that…I have no regrets! I HAVE NO—REGRETS—about what I’ve done!” He yelled it in the Doctor’s face, yelled it against the fear, the horrible guilt and uncertainty flashing toward him like a bomb.  
  
“I find that hard to believe,” said Bashir.  
  
“That’s because you have no concept of the person you’re really speaking to.” Garak’s chest wouldn’t stop heaving, and with horror, he realized what was about to happen. “You have no concept of anything beyond… you… you have no concept of….”  
  
Garak couldn’t stop shaking, feeling trapped between two lives he couldn’t bear to lead. He was sweating again, cool and clammy. A face he hadn’t allowed himself to think about in ages flickered like a reflection on the surface of his mind. He stared at Bashir to block it out, but this only made him more afraid. His downfall was about to be repeated, and for a moment he was convinced that his deepest self was even more destructive than who he’d been on Empok Nor.  
  
Bashir kept staring at him calmly. “Of what, Garak?” he said, his voice so soft that Garak could barely hear it through the pulsing in his ears. His breathing was slowing. The words he’d been about to say dissolved in his mouth, and his face relaxed from its tormented expression into exhausted blankness.  
  
“Of what?” Bashir prompted again. “What were you going to say?”  
  
Garak’s eyes drifted away until he was staring forward at the ceiling. Finally, he managed to control his breathing enough to speak.  
  
“Doctor….” His voice shook more than he expected. No longer knowing why he bothered, he kept it harsh. “I think it would be best if you left me alone.”  
  
“Once you’re stabilized, I’d be glad to give you some space. But I’m worried that… the realization of what has happened might be a bit overwhelming.”  
  
“I’m sure you have other patients to attend to,” Garak muttered. “Chief O’Brien—”  
  
“Is just fine,” Bashir interrupted firmly. “You’re the only one I’m concerned about at the moment. You’ve got a few broken ribs and some concussive damage, apart from what the psychotropic compound was doing.” Garak gave a short exhale, blinking rapidly and glancing around the infirmary. “Don’t worry,” Bashir murmured. “No one else is here.”  
  
Garak couldn’t look at him. He didn’t want to think, but in the silence, all he could do was try to make sense of his memories from the last—how many days had it been?  
  
“Are you ready to tell me why Amaro was going to kill you?” Bashir asked. “I want to know the truth.”  
  
“He…” Garak began, but realized his reasons were weak. “Well, I can’t be certain that he was.”  
  
“Was it paranoia then?”  
  
“It was bloodlust.” His voice was flat. “I wanted to see him dead, Doctor. So I killed him.”  
  
“And that’s why you took Nog hostage too?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I see.” Bashir smiled slightly. “That’s all I needed to know. Now there’s no doubt in my mind that you are _not_ guilty of the crimes committed on Empok Nor.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Garak’s monotone cracked and gave way to loud incredulity. “Doctor, _how_ can you be so naïve?” He flinched as his newly mending ribs protested. “I _killed_ my own crew member. I _wanted_ to kill your friend! How exactly does that translate to _not guilty_?”  
  
“I understand exactly what happened,” said Bashir. He looked relieved, of all things! “But you’re the only person I need to help right now.”  
  
“It was my fault we went to that station in the first place,” Garak hissed. “ _I_ was the one who damaged the plasma manifold. And… on Empok Nor… I _knew_ that I’d been affected by the compound, but I-I kept the information to myself.”  
  
The well-worn lines between Bashir’s eyebrows deepened. “Why?”  
  
Garak fell silent, eyes roving desperately across the room. Bashir sighed and began to unlatch the straps that had been keeping Garak motionless on the bed. Garak was about to balk at this, then noticed the sleepiness settling lightly over his mind. “You gave me a sedative. Well, at least there’s that—you’re not _completely_ hopeless.”  
  
“I thought the moment of truth was getting a bit too overwhelming,” Bashir admitted. “But I kept the dosage very low. You’ll keep conscious. Unless, of course, you want to rest, but you’ve been under for over twenty four hours.”  
  
“The moment… of truth,” Garak murmured bitterly to himself. He breathed out very slowly, and even then, it shook. He closed his eyes, not wanting to face Bashir. “I’m not sure such a thing exists.”  
  
“Oh, I know,” Bashir murmured. “But even if the truth doesn’t exist, it’s obviously still important. The _medical_ truth about your actions, Garak, is that they were being directed by a highly sophisticated drug.”  
  
Garak’s eyes flashed open. “No, Doctor. That’s the worst part of it. The actions I took weren’t random or senseless—on the contrary, everything I did made _perfect_ sense.”  
  
“You mean it made sense at the time. It’s only natural that your mind would try to find a reasonable string of motives for your behavior—it was playing off your most aggressive instincts. It’s a bit like when dreams have a storyline that make sense—”  
  
“Doctor, listen to me!” Garak cried, grasping Bashir’s shoulder. “You don’t know a _thing_ about what goes on in my mind, day _in_ , and day _out_ …. I wanted to go to Empok Nor to get away from this station, to find… information or weapons that I could use for my own purposes—so I damaged that plasma manifold, and I didn’t care if _anyone_ on my crew got hurt.” He slowed his voice purposely toward the end, hoping Bashir would get the point. “This life, on this station, Doctor, has only gotten more pitiful as the years have gone by.” Garak could barely speak for the disgust and pain in his voice. “I—couldn’t—live with it—anymore.”  
  
Bashir slowly reached up to where Garak’s fingers were digging into his shoulder. Carefully, he pried Garak’s hand away, took it in both hands, and guided it down to rest on Garak’s chest. “I suppose this is the part again where you’re about to say how much you hate me.”  
  
“I beg your pardon?” Garak blurted, a sudden pain flaring in his chest that was completely unrelated to broken ribs. Bashir almost looked amused.  
  
“Go on then, say it,” Bashir goaded. “That’s how this goes, isn’t it? ‘I hate this station, and I hate _you_.’ You see? But you don’t have to repeat yourself. You already did when I went to pick you up, if you remember. There’s nothing you can say that will make me afraid of you. And that’s what you want, isn’t it Garak? So say it. Now that the drug is wearing off, it might actually count for something.”  
  
“What _are_ you babbling about, Doctor,” Garak groaned, flooded by the memories of what he’d said, and a longing to escape from himself.  
  
“Once we get past the part where you’re smashing things and trying to strangle me, maybe we can get to the part where I say….”  
  
Garak’s throat constricted. Of course. Bashir was referring to the incident with the wire.  
  
“Don’t forgive me, Doctor,” he whispered. “I couldn’t bear that.”  
  
He noticed that Bashir had kept his right hand resting on Garak’s left. It was warm. And just like that, Garak knew it was already too late. The foolish doctor had already forgiven him.  
  
Bashir stood silently as Garak began to shake and turn his face away. Garak could blame it on the sedative—it had made him lose control of himself in a different way. Was this who he really was, this ache that was beyond physical? He felt as if something had been crushed inside him, and it wasn’t his ribs… it was deeper than that.  
  
Bashir didn’t say anything for a long moment, but his hand remained gripped loosely around Garak’s.  
  
Then, he quietly said, “Would you like to be alone now?”  
  
“No.” He said it before he had time to think. “I—” Garak paused, wanting to get a firmer grip on his reactions. He tried to speak more steadily through his swollen throat. “I’ll be alright, Doctor. The Federation is sure to be less blind to my failings than you.”  
  
“Well, I was going to wait to tell you about the inquest, but I suppose now is as good a time as any. It will be about Amaro, of course. But once I’ve explained that you weren’t in control of your actions—”  
  
“How can you stand there,” Garak whispered, finally looking at Bashir again, “with all your knowledge, all your intellectual expertise, and speak to me….”  
  
“It’s a very simple physiological process,” Bashir smirked. “The air in my lungs is released in controlled quantities through two membranes stretched across the larynx, which causes them to vibrate—”  
  
“You know very well that I’m not speaking of physical capability, Doctor.”  
  
Bashir’s smirk softened into a smile. “Alright, then. I’m your doctor, and I have training in dealing with difficult patients.”  
  
“What do you want from me?” Garak cried suddenly, unable to look away from Bashir’s face, and hating himself for it. “Please, tell me, Doctor. Because I don’t think you understand exactly what you’re asking when you want me to tell you how I _feel_. Tain… would have been proud of what I did, he would have said ‘You’ve finally learned your lesson, Elim,’ and _he would be right_. I am losing everything, Doctor… I….” his breath heaved in his chest painfully and hissed between his teeth and he turned it into a weak laugh. “I’m… … whatever control I had over my own life…!”  
  
“I understand,” said Bashir in his soothing murmur.  
  
“No,” Garak said. “You don’t. How can you? All of this must still seem like the disjointed babbling of the deranged.”  
  
“I understand,” Bashir repeated. Garak wished he would shout harshly; it would have been easier to ignore him, then. “The drug was designed to bring out your worst fears and desires, and in addition to that, as I said, I imagine the rational part of your mind created explanations of your behavior based on things you were already struggling with. That doesn’t mean you were in control of what you did. But it also doesn’t mean your feelings of loss aren’t real. You’ve lost a lot recently. Probably more than you’ve talked to me about.”  
  
“Please, Doctor….”  
  
“Sometimes, the best way to manage loss is to accept it,” Bashir went on. “I understand if you want to work through that process in private. But if you’re still searching for Tain’s approval, and that’s what made you go to Empok Nor, then I think it’s pretty obvious that it would be wiser in the long run to recognize that your feelings about the loss of Tain… and Cardassia… are not going to go away just because you want to ignore them. You’re going to have to work with them.”  
  
Garak could think of no retort, and didn’t trust himself to speak coherently anyway. He was staring into Bashir’s calm, earnest features and thinking about sentiment—the whole blasted subplot of sentiment running through his life, driving away everything he’d ever loved, destroying everything he’d ever worked for.  
  
“If I give in,” he said a minute later in a crackling, shaking whisper, “If I don’t ignore them, Doctor… they will catch up to me… and I won’t have my implant this time… to withstand the torture that would be.”  
  
“No, I suppose you won’t,” Bashir said simply, and raised his eyebrows slightly. “But you will have me.”  
  
Garak’s throat closed and he screwed his eyes shut, cursing the doctor at the longing and the fear burning in his veins. If only the doctor knew how misguided his advice was, and just what he was doing to him with such a tender offer. This was going to be a long stay in sick bay, indeed.


	13. The Whole Truth, and Nothing But The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set after directly after Empok Nor.

The suit was far too tight in the chest. No, that would not do at all. Garak's hands went to the hidden seam in the front, only to find that it refused to open. With every breath, the suit became tighter—the pins he had left in the darts began to dig deeply into his skin as he gasped, trying to find a way to remove the outfit. He turned to a mirror and saw himself wearing a tuxedo, blood draining from a hole in his neck as Bashir's grim face swam into focus behind him. Amaro was gasping in his ears, dying somewhere in the corner of the room.

"I'm getting a little concerned about how slowly your ribs are healing," Bashir's voice said. How had Garak ended up on a bed? His hand was still searching for a way to relieve the pressure, but the doctor stopped him, and Garak's mind crawled more fully out of sleep. The gasping was his own.

"Your skin is clammy," Bashir noted with a worried look, brushing the back of his hand briefly against Garak's forehead and cheek. "More than usual, I mean."

"Of course it is—it's freezing in here!" Garak tried to slow his breathing and shivering. The pain in his chest subsided gradually.

"I'm sorry," Bashir grimaced. "Computer, raise the room temperature to thirty degrees Celsius. I also seem to keep underestimating how much pain medication you need. You told me that the amount we decided on before was enough."

"It was," Garak said. "I'm fine, Doctor. It wasn't the pain that woke me."

Bashir raised an eyebrow. "Then what was it?"

"Unsettling dreams. Nonsensical. I barely even remember what they were about." Garak stared glumly at the wall, a bit of a tremor still left in his breath. "Perhaps it's a side-effect of the medication."

"Maybe," Bashir sighed. "I want you to tell me if you're still in pain, Garak. As a doctor, that's important information I need to know in order to treat you correctly."

"Of course," Garak said dismissively. "I'll let you know right away if I notice anything alarming."

Bashir gave him a doubtful look before he turned back to his tricorder readings. "Well, since you're awake, do you feel up to visitors?"

"Visitors?" Garak blinked at Bashir, exhausted now that the pain had mostly faded and the room was becoming acceptably warm. "Who?" His last visitor had been Chief O'Brien. Their exchange had been awkward but not as difficult as it could have been. Again, the unexpected forgiveness, but this time Garak had been relieved. The Chief was a good man. After what he'd dealt with at Empok Nor, most other people probably wouldn't have agreed to apologize to Amaro's wife on Garak's behalf.

"Garak?" Bashir prompted, and Garak realized he hadn't been listening. "So, shall I tell Ziyal you're not up to seeing her today?"

"No… I'd like to see her." Garak swallowed, taking slow careful breaths to try and focus himself.

"Maybe Odo can wait until tomorrow, then."

"Odo?"

"The constable wanted to see you too," Bashir patiently repeated.

"I see." Garak closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, hoping it would relieve some of the sensation of tightness in his chest and focus his mind a bit. If his alertness had already suffered this much, then taking more painkillers was out of the question. "Well, for now, let Ziyal know I can see her any time she likes."

"Alright then." Bashir smiled and got up, leaving Garak's range of vision from the bed. Garak had only a minute or two to let the silence sink in before footsteps approached, and Ziyal's tearful face came into view.

"Oh, Garak!" she cried. "I'm so glad you're alright. You are alright, aren't you?" She stopped herself short, though she clearly wanted to fling her arms around his neck. She settled for laying her hand on his instead. "Doctor Bashir told me your ribs are still healing."

"I'm already feeling much better, my dear," Garak said softly, managing a tired smile. He wished he could give her more than that, but for once the mask did not come easily. A heaviness rested on his entire body. He reached up to touch her cheek in thanks, and wondered how much she knew of what happened on Empok Nor.

She grinned brilliantly and cupped his hand in hers, holding it in place. "I-I've missed you. You have no idea how worried I've been."

"I apologize," Garak said, but his mind blanked when he tried to say more. Small images from the mission to Empok Nor kept diverting his thoughts before fizzling out into darkness. "I'm sorry I'm not more talkative… apparently mending bones is exhausting work even for a Cardassian."

"Oh, it's alright," Ziyal reassured him. "I thought you might want some company, that's all. If you need to sleep, I can go…."

"That won't be necessary. I _would_ like some company." Garak shifted position on the bed so he could face her better. "Why don't you tell me what you've been up to since I left?"

Ten minutes later, in the middle of Ziyal's explanation of some Bajoran religious text, Bashir put a hand on her shoulder.

"I think he's asleep," he whispered.

Garak's eyes had indeed drifted closed, and his chest was rising and falling in a shallow, steady rhythm.

"I know," Ziyal murmured, smiling sadly. "How soon until he's back to his old self, Doctor?"

"He should be up and about in a few days at most." Bashir wasn't sure if he would be "back to his old self" in a complete sense, but he hoped that answer would satisfy Ziyal.

"Can I sit with him for a while, even though he's asleep?"

"Of course," Bashir said, and Ziyal pulled her chair closer to Garak's bedside, where she could hold his hand comfortably.

Bashir watched them for a few minutes while fiddling with his medical tricorder. Garak's face was mostly serene, though he still looked terribly drained. Naturally, healing such extensive injuries took a toll on the body, but Bashir knew it was more than that. Garak showed many signs of being depressed, which was only to be expected due to coming off the rush of the psychotropic drug. Last time he'd broken so many ribs, he'd been his usual chipper self right away, making jokes about the Klingons who'd attacked him. Now he lay listlessly and could barely smile even for Ziyal. Some of that was due to the chemical imbalance in his brain, and it could be made worse by Garak having time to dwell on his losses and the part he'd played in Amaro's death.

He needs something to do, Bashir thought to himself. But then, a time of being allowed to mourn might just make Garak happier in the long run… and make him stop running off on missions that nearly get him killed. Bashir sighed, stretched to loosen a knot in his back, and left Ziyal and Garak alone.

...

When Garak woke, Ziyal was just getting ready to leave. Her movement brought him out of sleep, but he kept his eyes closed, listening.

"You can always come back again later, but for now you need a good dinner and a walk. Doctor's orders."

"Thank you. I'm sure you'll take good care of Garak, I just… feel better when I'm with him."

"I understand." Bashir's voice was in a low register that felt warm to Garak's ears.

There was a brief silence, then the sound of Ziyal's footsteps retreating. Bashir paced a bit before settling into his chair and picking up his data pad. Garak could easily make out all of that without opening his eyes, but he couldn't hear the doctor's expression or posture. He opened his eyes a sliver and looked over to the desk where Bashir had his chin cupped in one hand, bent over his reading with deep concentration, occasionally stopping to insert some datum or other into the computer. Garak's eyes felt heavy, and for the split second he allowed them to fully close again, he saw a vision of Ziyal's flesh melting away from her bones in much the same way Odo had begun to deteriorate during interrogation. _I_ _never met anyone_ _else who_ _relished a good interrogation_ _as much as you did_.

His involuntarily gasp was followed by the sound of Bashir jumping up from his chair.

"Garak?"

Garak considered faking sleep for about two seconds before he realized Bashir would never fall for it. He opened his eyes with relief.

"Doctor, I… ah… I believe the compound must be having a lingering effect on me," Garak confessed shakily.

"How so?" Out came the tricorder.

Garak made a slightly disgusted face. "This may come as a surprise to you, but I don't _normally_ suffer from disturbing visions of death and dismemberment. Just now, when I closed my eyes…."

"Was it a memory, or an entirely new image, like a dream?"

"Neither," Garak said slowly. "And both."

"Garak," Bashir scolded softly. "Now's not the time to be cryptic."

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but that's the most concise and accurate answer I can give you. The image was familiar, but involved different circumstances."

"I don't suppose you'd like to describe it for me."

"I don't particularly relish the thought," Garak sighed. "Do you think it's the drug? Or am I going mad?" He managed a wry smile at that, even though the persistent hollow feeling had him worried.

Bashir mirrored the expression briefly. "The drug, most likely. Your brain chemistry is still readjusting, but I don't expect any real relapses if that's what you're worried about." His voice was so soft and low; Garak found himself feeling sleepy again, his heartbeat calming.

"Thank you, Doctor," Garak murmured, blinking slowly up at him. "I suppose… you're no stranger to dealing with my unbalanced brain chemistry." He nearly laughed.

That kind smile. It made his eyes burn. "So far this hasn't been too much of an ordeal for me," Bashir said. "Don't worry. We'll have you right as rain soon enough."

"Right as rain?" Garak mumbled with a befuddled wrinkling of his nose. "How like a human… to judge something like rain as being right or wrong…." The thought amused him. He remembered a talk with Quark about the insidious nature of root beer and other such bubbly things from Earth. Bashir embodied some of those very attributes, didn't he? Garak blinked groggily at a stray thread in Bashir's uniform. He wasn't thinking clearly, but right now the doctor's silly Earth sayings seemed strangely comforting.

"You know, Doctor, you've got a loose thread… right there…." Garak lifted a hand to point it out. "I'm ashamed to be seen with you."

"Thank you." Bashir rolled his eyes and grinned. "I'll take a laser scalpel to it right away."

"How crude."

"How is it that this always happens," Bashir mused to himself while he trimmed the offending thread and brushed his sleeve clean.

"What exactly are you referring to?" Garak noted his own emotional state with a detached sense of curiosity. He'd almost forgotten what pure sadness felt like. He heard his own voice—so much softer and more subdued, but still his own. It wasn't so bad if he could still talk to Bashir like this. "You mean the sorry state of your uniform?"

"No, I mean…." Bashir gestured unhelpfully. "I mean, we can talk so easily about anything except the most important things. I can never tell with you when a loose thread is just a loose thread. Do you understand?" Bashir looked perplexed at his own question.

Garak stared at the doctor long enough that Bashir averted his eyes. Garak decided to take pity on him. "I think I see what's going on."

"And?"

"I suppose from your point of view, it's a bit baffling, but from where I'm standing—or lying, if you insist—you've made a habit of speaking to me as if you were a fellow Cardassian. You simply haven't realized it yet." Garak let himself smile at that. "As for myself, I have the excuse of being on some very good pain medication and so my tongue might be a bit loose at the moment."

"I don't mind. Honestly, silence from _you_ worries me."

"Does it?" Garak murmured, half to himself. For the moment the infirmary was all that existed. Since it held the both of them, it also held Tain, and Tolan, and Mila, and Ziyal, and everyone who had ever existed in the intricate web of Garak's memories. But somehow this universe excluded the threat from the Dominion, and the overarching sense of desperation and failure. Here, exile was a word with no jagged edges. Garak knew it wouldn't last, but for the moment it didn't matter.

Bashir had been checking something at his computer. Now he came back toward the bed with a self-conscious smirk. "I suppose I know how much a good conversation means to you. I'm not sure if this qualifies as a good conversation, since we haven't exactly said much of anything, but I do try."

Garak sighed with equal measures of exasperation and fondness. "That is precisely the point. You say much more than you realize."

"What am I saying now?" Bashir asked, humoring him.

Garak fell silent at that, unable to summarize it blatantly. Instead, he simply whispered, "Thank you, Doctor."

Bashir's indulgent grin dissolved. "For what?"

It was difficult to control his expressions in this sleepy illusion of security. Garak struggled a moment, then turned his face away, closing his eyes again and swallowing all the meaningless words in his throat.

"What?" Bashir's voice was concerned but quiet. "What is it?"

"Tell me," Garak said slowly to minimize the trembling in his voice. "How long do you think it will take my brain chemistry to go back to normal?"

"If by normal, you mean whatever it was before exposure to the compound, probably a few days. But the brain is always changing, and to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't be surprised if you feel different for several weeks at least."

"Because of what I did," Garak said bluntly to the wall.

"And other significant events," Bashir murmured.

For several minutes, Garak waited for sleep to claim him, or else for Bashir to say something he could start another round of banter with. Neither came. Bashir went back to his computer, and the silence began to threaten the self-contained peace of the infirmary. Eventually it was enough that Garak had to speak.

"Do you ever wonder why I want to go back?"

He heard Bashir straighten in the chair behind him, but no response came.

"To Cardassia," Garak clarified. "It must seem strange to you. After all, there is nothing left for me there."

"Sometimes, yes." Bashir's voice was reserved. Garak didn't even need to turn around to see the cautious squint.

"Humor me," said Garak. "If you had been exiled from Earth when they found out about your genetic enhancements—no, if you had been exiled from all of Federation space… but that must be unimaginable to you. The Federation is so large. To never see another member of the Federation, unless you happened to meet a fellow exile like yourself…."

"I admit, it is a difficult thought." The doctor was still holding back, waiting for some twist.

"Now imagine that while you're in exile, the Federation is conquered by the Dominion…." Garak couldn't say anymore. Where was he going with this? What was the point of laying it out, like dead bodies under the gaze of foreign eyes? This wasn't helping the silence.

"I apologize, Doctor." Garak swallowed, much less frustrated with himself than he should have been. "As you know, I'm… not in my right mind."

"Unfortunately, your scenario isn't too far from the realm of possibility." Bashir leaned over to check the sensors attached to Garak's skull. "At least the part about the Federation being conquered by the Dominion… but the Dominion doesn't seem to use exile as a punishment."

"Indeed," Garak sighed. "Instead, it's a privilege reserved for family. You could say Cardassia is the same way… depending on your point of view."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Bashir said.

Garak allowed himself to look at the doctor again, and Bashir met his gaze calmly. Could he trust that impression of timelessness and understanding?

Reluctantly, he asked, "Don't you have other patients, Doctor?"

"I've taken care of most of them while you were sleeping. The nurses have been dealing with the minor cases."

"Your diligence is touching, but I don't want to keep you from your work."

"This _is_ my work. And don't worry—I've been getting lots of research in." Bashir glanced toward the computer consoles. "I'm never bored."

Garak very nearly said "thank you" again—but that would have just been redundant. Instead he smiled and said "Well, I'll have to trust you on that."

...

More than once during his stay in the infirmary, Garak found himself transported back to the Dominion prison camp. These memories retained little of the frustration or claustrophobia which had made the reality so miserable; instead, Tain loomed in the corner, lost and faceless, while Bashir's hand was always in easy reach. It was difficult to remove himself from that boundary-less place when he woke to the doctor's murmurings and careful adjustments. Sometimes it was all Garak could do to turn his face away when he found himself seized by a nameless grief. But for the most part, as the hours passed, his mind began to clear, and above all he remembered the doctor as a landmark in the desert of his wandering mind.

When Odo came in on the third day, Garak almost forgot there was any reason for the constable to be awkward around him.

"Good morning, Constable," Garak called cheerfully. He was sitting up and eating what Bashir had promised to be his last meal in the infirmary, pending final test results.

Odo stopped short, taken aback, and then grumbled, "Good afternoon."

There was an edge to his usual stiffness, Garak noticed. And then it all came flooding back.

"Why don't you sit down?" Garak gestured to the seat opposite, which Bashir had been occupying moments before. The doctor had excused himself after ushering Odo in, mumbling something about Quark's.

"I'd prefer to stand, thank you," said Odo with his arms behind his back.

"Constable," Garak said, almost chiding. "I insist."

Odo narrowed his eyes at Garak before he grudgingly took the offered seat and folded his arms. Garak raised his mug of red-leaf tea in salute and took a sip, intently watching every change on Odo's plastic face. It had a peculiar openness to it that Garak had always found fascinating, considering that it was basically unfinished. Odo's eyes shifted uncomfortably in their deep sockets, taking in the lunch spread out on the little table.

"Larish pie?" Odo jerked his chin questioningly.

"Most people mistakenly assume it's a Bajoran dish, but the recipe was originally Cardassian. I daresay the replicators here do a much better job than Federation Standard, for that reason." Garak didn't let the silence stretch too long. "Doctor Bashir tells me that you'll be speaking at the inquest."

"Yes. On your behalf." Odo finally leaned back in the chair—he'd been perched on the edge, back straight as a rod, and he didn't look any more comfortable now. "And it's not an inquest anymore—it's a regular trial. You're welcome to attend, but I'd advise you against it. Your presence might make it more difficult to convince the judge."

"I'm not sure whether to be grateful or insulted. Still, you're speaking on my behalf?" Garak repeated, though Bashir had told him as much. "I'm a little surprised at you, Odo. I would expect your sense of fairness and decency would make it difficult to defend a known killer."

The moment he'd said it, he knew it harked too close to what had been spewing from his mouth back on Empok Nor. But that was half the point. Odo glanced sharply at him and leaned against the table.

"Evidence from Doctor Bashir made it very clear to me that it was no ordinary murder." Odo paused a moment, but Garak kept a stubbornly expectant expression on his face. "Are you familiar with the career of the Federation captain Jean-Luc Picard?"

"I may have heard of him," Garak shrugged.

"Then you've probably heard about his encounters with the Borg."

A brief smile. "Well, it doesn't take a spy to hear about something like that."

"That depends on how much you've heard about it. The point is that Captain Picard wasn't prosecuted for the murders he committed after being assimilated. It's Doctor Bashir's professional opinion that your case should be treated in the same way."

"So I've heard." Garak lowered the forkful of pie he'd been about to shovel in. "But are _you_ convinced of that?"

Odo paused long enough that Garak decided to keep eating. Finally, agitation got the better of Odo and he straightened again.

"The comparison has its faults. For example, Doctor Bashir admits that you were aware of your actions, and your actions weren't being prescribed specifically by an external force, as in the case of the Borg hive mind. But in general you were incapable of denying the violent instincts that the drug…."

"Enhanced?" Garak finished for him.

Odo frowned. "If that's what you call it."

"If you have doubts, then by all means, express them at the trial."

Odo huffed quietly to himself and jerked his eyes away from Garak before lacing his hands together on the table. "I just want to know one thing," he said in his quiet gruff way. "And that is if _you_ believe you were responsible for the things you did and said on Empok Nor."

That wasn't the question Garak had been expecting. He slowly set down his fork and folded his hands under the table. Odo's face took on that peculiar earnest look—he was listening without preconceptions, and he wanted nothing but the truth. It made Garak distinctly uncomfortable. He had found it was nearly impossible to evade Odo when he approached a question like this. It wasn't fair, really, coming as both interrogator and friend.

"I don't know," Garak finally said.

"If you were judging someone in your exact position, what would you believe?"

Garak thought about it, numbly at first, and then with a growing sense of dread. "I would believe myself to be guilty, at least in part. I knew something was wrong with me, but I didn't tell anyone. I _didn't_ intend to kill Amaro, or even the Cardassian soldier I killed. But…."

"Yes?"

"Do you suppose the Federation will choose to have me serve my life sentence here, or somewhere else?"

"I doubt you'll be given a life sentence," Odo said dismissively.

"Execution, then?"

Odo rolled his eyes. "You know very well the Federation doesn't believe in the death penalty."

"Ah. That's right." Garak paused a moment, examining himself. "Well… where was I…."

"You didn't intend to kill anyone, but—?"

"But it wasn't particularly shocking to me, when I did."

"Is that all?"

"Isn't that all you need?" Garak spread his hands helplessly. "If you're expecting me to defend myself, Constable, you've come at the wrong time. You should have seen me immediately after my arrival here, raving that I only did what was natural."

"As it happens, I've already heard enough of that," Odo muttered into his fists.

"Ah," Garak said softly. "I thought as much…."

In the silence that followed, it seemed unfitting to finish the bit of pie still waiting on the plate. Garak stared at it for a bit before he sat back with a sigh.

"Well! Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

Odo opened his mouth, poised on the edge of a thought, but then shook his head and stood. He hesitated. "I'm… glad you're feeling like yourself again."

"Thank you, Constable," Garak said brightly. "I wish I could say the same about you."

"What do you mean?" Odo looked confused.

"You seem a bit… ah… diverted. If it's merely a heightened sense of caution, then I commend you—for not letting familiarity cloud the truth."

Odo could be slow on some things, but not this. "I'm not _afraid_ of you, Garak," he said, with all the careful emphasis and head-tilting he usually reserved for stating facts he assumed should be obvious. "I have a lot of things on my mind, that's all. I'm just not sure that you're not afraid of _me_."

Garak burst into startled laughter. "Constable, I see no reason to hide the fact that your species terrifies me. Anyone in their right mind would be terrified."

Odo's eyes fixed on him, absorbing that.

"But—" Garak interrupted, before the constable could stiffen up and turn away "—you're not a typical Changeling. Unless you've been harboring a secret hatred of 'solids' all this time, in which case you're a much better liar than anyone gives you credit for."

Odo actually laughed a little under his breath at that, gripping the back of the chair loosely. "I've always hated lying."

"As a rule, yes, that is what I've observed about you. Although, if I'm not mistaken, you're still very good at keeping secrets."

Odo's head jerked around and he looked startled for a moment. Then he narrowed his eyes. "Hmph. I'm not sure what kind of secrets you imagine I'm keeping. Are you questioning my loyalties?"

"Not at all," Garak said, and left it at that. Teasing the constable for his hidden affections wasn't as fun as it should have been.

...

When the call came from Odo to inform him that the trial was about to start, Bashir was in the morgue. The dead soldiers of the Third Battalion had provided a great deal of information about Cardassian physiology, along with several puzzles he had yet to unravel about the compound's effect on the Cardassian nervous system. He finished shutting the partially-dissected bodies in their freezer compartments, grabbed his tissue samples and data pad, and headed back through the infirmary.

Odo was waiting for him outside the infirmary door. "Doctor Bashir." He tilted his head in greeting.

"Constable."

They turned and walked across the promenade toward the lift on the other end. It had been a bit crowded all day, officials and loved ones of the deceased clogging the foot traffic with their absent-minded grief.

"Odo," Bashir murmured under his breath, "do you think there'll be any trouble?"x

Odo glanced at him. "Garak has agreed that it's best for him to stay out of sight until after the trial. But I have a few extra deputies patrolling the promenade, just in case anyone tries anything foolish." Odo pointed subtly, arms folded, toward one Bajoran deputy stationed near Garak's tailor shop. Bashir spotted several others stationed at various intervals along the promenade, watching the guests.

"Probably a good idea," Bashir agreed. "I'm sure some of _them_ are wondering why Garak isn't being held in the brig right now. I can't say that I blame them. I just hope we can clear this up."

Odo said nothing to that. He hurried toward a knot of people who were gathered around the lift. Within a few minutes, he and Bashir were shuffling into the conference room, which was already full of spectators. Two curved tables and several rows of chairs faced a smaller rectangular table, behind which the judge, one Captain Jameson, stood at attention. She had short backswept brown hair, barely graying, and a square, smooth-angled face with very fine wrinkles around her eyes. Bashir had only seen her briefly earlier that day when he had showed her his findings on the psychotropic compound. Then she had requested some time alone with the bodies of the crewmembers and the Cardassians, as well as access to his equipment in order to verify the information.

"Is everyone here, Constable?" she asked.

Odo swept his eyes over the room. Dax waved to him from one of the furthest chairs among the spectators, and O'Brien sat tensely near the edge of their table. His mouth twitched when he saw Bashir smile at him.

"All are present and accounted for, Doctor."

"Very good. If you'll all be seated."

Bashir sat down by O'Brien, with Odo on his other side. Amaro's wife and mother gave him and Odo cautious glances, and then feigned disinterest. His wife wore shoulder-length dirty-blonde hair and the teal of a science officer; his mother, a simple pantsuit of greys and blues. She had the same nose and eyebrows as her son, which gave her a rather intimidating default expression. Bashir wondered if they had been close. What had she felt when the call had come, telling her that her son had been killed by the only Cardassian on the station? Was she angry at what many would call carelessness on the part of Captain Sisko for allowing a known spy to accompany her son on a dangerous away mission? What would she say if she knew Garak had made the mission necessary in the first place? And what would he, Julian Bashir, say if certain questions could only be answered by explaining Garak's schemes?

He took a very slow, deep breath, so as not to disturb the quiet in the room. Hopefully he would mainly be required to testify about the medical evidence of Garak's innocence.

There was no whispering except for "excuse me"s as everyone found their seats. Captain Jameson stood. She made a brief opening statement for the computer's official log of the proceedings, and then continued calmly. "Four Starfleet officers lost their lives on an away mission to gather supplies from Empok Nor, a Cardassian station which was reported to be abandoned. Three of those officers were allegedly killed by Cardassians of unknown identity apart from the rank indicated by their uniforms: Thirteenth Battalion, First Order. The fourth, Roy Amaro, was allegedly killed by Elim Garak, a Cardassian tailor on Deep Space Nine, suspected of being a former operative of the Obsidian Order. The purpose of this trial is to determine whether Mister Garak is guilty of manslaughter and to what degree. The family of Crewman Amaro—his widow, Rebecca Amaro, and his mother, Lisa Tate—are the prosecutors and have the right to question the Defense. Mister Garak himself is being represented by the professional medical opinion of Chief Medical Officer Julian Bashir, and the chief of security, Constable Odo, is acting attorney for the Defendant. Chief Engineer Miles O'Brien is available to question as a witness."

She paused, looking over her notes and then at the tense faces of the audience. "All available evidence strongly suggests that the members of the Third Battalion were responsible for the deaths of crewmembers Boq'ta, Pechetti, and Stolzoff. Pechetti and Stolzoff died of broken necks, and Boq'ta's death was a result of suffocation due to a crushed throat. Both methods were carried out through direct contact between aggressor and victim. Constable Odo and I have analyzed the injuries, along with tissue samples and fingerprints from the members of the Third Battalion. Everything matches, right down to the bruise pattern left by one of the soldier's boots. This evidence has been made available to the families and loved ones of the deceased. I assume the defendants have also reviewed it."

Bashir nodded. A Bolian, presumably related to Boq'ta, took a short, quick breath behind Bashir, and Bashir fought to suppress a shudder.

"Crewman Amaro's death was the result of a stab wound with two points of entry. The killer used a flux coupler from the toolkit Amaro and Boq'ta were using. The prosecutors may now address the Defense and witness."

"Thank you, your honor," said Amaro's mother, Ms. Tate, as she stood and positioned herself between the judge and the rest of the room. "I would first like to address Chief O'Brien, as the only present witness of my son's death."

"You may proceed."

"Chief O'Brien, how did you come to the conclusion that Mister Garak was the one who killed Amaro?"

O'Brien jerked to attention, his mouth open slightly. "He told me," he said simply, both eyebrows raised. "Amaro did, I mean. I called Boq'ta and Amaro to check on their progress, and when neither of them responded, I went to auxiliary control, which is where I'd told them to be. When I got there, Boq'ta and one of the Cardassian soldiers were dead, and Amaro was just barely hanging on. That was all he managed to say before he died."

"Has Mister Garak since confirmed that he killed Crewman Amaro?" The face of Amaro's widow, Rebecca, was composed as she looked upon the Defense.

O'Brien immediately glanced at Bashir, who had been waiting for this, but it was Odo who rose and spoke.

"Garak has confessed to me that he killed Amaro and both of the Cardassian soldiers." He turned to the judge. "I can have him sign an official statement if necessary."

"It is not necessary at this point in the proceedings."

"Doctor Bashir," said Tate, and Bashir stood. "Are you able to contradict the Constable's statement? Has Mister Garak feigned innocence while staying in your infirmary?"

"Garak confessed to me that he was personally responsible for Amaro's death," Bashir said clearly, but quietly. "He has also expressed a great deal of remorse." He paused there, realizing that anyone who didn't know Garak well might not take such a view of his behavior. But Bashir could tell—he was as sure of it as he ever was about anything when it came to Garak.

"Remorse about which aspect, Doctor?"

Bashir paused, cautiously watching her face. "I'm not sure what you mean. Are you accusing Garak of something more than manslaughter?"

Rebecca turned sharply toward the judge. "Your honor, Captain Sisko shared the following information with me when I met with him upon arrival at the station. Doctor Bashir informed him that the entire trip to Empok Nor was part of one of Mister Garak's schemes. Do you deny this, Doctor Bashir?"

So much for sticking with medical evidence. Bashir tried to keep his voice calm. "I object to the way the question is phrased. Garak told me that he damaged the plasma manifold, knowing that Empok Nor was the only place we would be able to go for replacement parts, and we would have to take him with us. He wanted to visit the station to look for information or materials he could use. He never intended for anyone to die on the mission."

"Couldn't Garak have simply asked to visit Empok Nor? Why did he keep his intentions a secret if they are as innocent as you seem to claim?"

Bashir frowned into his folded hands. Logically he knew he had done the right thing to take Garak's confession to the captain, but now it was bringing up one more point against Garak. Sometimes he wished everyone had as fair a view of the "simple tailor" as he did; he couldn't help feeling that many people were biased against Garak, but was it that _he_ was being blinded by being _too_ understanding?

"He has declined to say specifically." Odo stood beside Bashir. "Just that he wanted materials there for his own purposes."

"Am I to believe that he set up this scheme for something as innocent as sewing equipment?"

"I would not suggest such an _unlikely_ scenario," said Odo with very careful annunciation. "It's no secret that Garak has many secrets. As a former operative of the Obsidian Order, he is skilled in many areas having to do with information gathering and reconnaissance. As the station's Chief of Security, I am aware that he makes use of private transmitters and codes of his own making in order to keep in contact with various informants. I'm almost certain that he was looking for either information to use against the current Cardassian government or else technology which would be useful in expanding his network."

"Nothing malicious?" Captain Jameson looked skeptical.

"Your honor, may I speak?" asked the Bolian father.

"It is not the usual protocol to allow a member of the audience to speak," Jameson said. "But if it is acceptable to both parties, I will allow it."

After everyone agreed to allow the Bolian to speak, he went on. "It seems obvious to me that this _Garak_ set up this mission to Empok Nor just so he could lure some Federation officers there, infect them with this virus, and then turn them loose against one another!"

"It's a drug, not a virus," Bashir interrupted. "It's not contagious."

"He must have known about its effects—been in cahoots with the soldiers there. I don't know why anyone on this station trusts him!"

Bashir kept his fists stiffly at his sides as he rose. "He was exiled from Cardassia! He's no longer affiliated with the Obsidian Order or Central Comm—"

"HE AS GOOD AS MURDERED MY SON! He's killed people before, I'm sure, and he can do it again!"

"Order!" shouted Jameson. "Sit down, both of you!"

Stiffly, Bashir took his seat, no longer looking at the Bolian. He heard him sit down too, after a moment.

"Now, Constable," said the judge. "What do you say in response to these accusations?"

"I would like to point out that Garak killed the only other Cardassians on the station. If he were working with them, I doubt they would have paved the way for their own destruction just to make sure Garak could get away with killing a few Federation officers." Odo's voice was wry as only Odo's voice could be. "The interpretation that Chief O'Brien has shared with me is much more likely. The compound was tested on members of the Third Battalion, and when it ended up making them aggressive to Cardassians as well, they were sealed away on the abandoned station to cover up the failed experiment _and_ keep them from doing more damage. Perhaps Cardassian scientists hoped that by keeping the soldiers alive, they could return to the station sometime and continue research on what went wrong. Either that, or they were left as guards of the station to keep intruders from learning Cardassian secrets. Garak's contact with the compound was purely an unfortunate accident."

"You say the other Cardassians were sealed in stasis tubes," said Tate. "Who discovered them first, and how were they released from stasis?"

"I call on Chief O'Brien as a witness," Odo nodded, and the Chief stood.

"Garak and Boq'ta were the ones who went into the infirmary first. They saw that the stasis tubes had been activated recently. My guess is the system was set up to trigger whenever anyone entered the station."

"Is it possible that Mister Garak opened the stasis tubes himself?" asked Rebecca.

"Boq'ta was with him. He would have seen."

"Mister Garak could have ordered Boq'ta to keep watch outside the infirmary."

"But then where would the soldiers have gone? There was only one entrance."

"Garak could have ordered Boq'ta to go check on something out of sight of the entrance."

"With all due respect," said O'Brien, "I don't think that's very likely. It was dark… spooky. Boq'ta would have wanted to stick together."

"Are you calling him a coward?" cried one of the Bolians.

"No!" O'Brien replied, lifting a hand gently toward them. "Of course not. He was just smart, and he obeyed orders. I assigned everyone into groups of two, for safety. It wouldn't make sense to split up unless absolutely necessary, and if Garak had come up with a good enough reason, Boq'ta would have mentioned it at some point."

Jameson nodded thoughtfully. "Constable, are you certain that Garak didn't intend to use the compound against the Federation somehow, but accidentally exposed himself to it in an attempt to smuggle it off the station?"

"There's no evidence that Garak knew the compound existed on Empok Nor in the first place. But supposing he did, and this was the reason for his going to the station, it would have likely been intended for use against the Dominion," Odo said. "But the most I would believe is that Garak was curious about the compound and wanted to analyze it. There's no reason to assume he knew what it did. Chief O'Brien can verify this."

O'Brien nodded. "He told us about the compound as soon as he'd analyzed it in the infirmary. He knew that the soldiers were affected, but I don't think he realized he was too. Not until it was too late anyway. If he intentionally woke the soldiers, or… infected himself for some reason… why would he have told us about the soldiers or the drug in the first place?"

Rebecca frowned at O'Brien, not saying anything for a moment. Then she seemed to gather herself. "Let's set that possibility aside, then, and assume, for now, that Garak did not intend to release the soldiers or to become exposed to the drug. However, I would like some clarification. This drug… how quickly does it act? Doctor Bashir, what does this drug _do_ , exactly?"

Bashir stood. "In simple terms, it floods the brain with adrenaline and other chemicals in order to induce a heightened tendency toward violence and paranoia. Once the drug has taken hold, there is very little that can be done to resist it," said Bashir. "When danger is introduced, nearly all life forms will either fight or flee. It's an instinct necessary for survival. Garak's brain was pushed into a chemical imbalance which made him literally unable to believe that he was safe. His fight response was activated, and he saw everyone as a possible threat. The certainty of that threat increased within a matter of minutes. It's nearly impossible to talk yourself out of a chemically induced panic like that, even if you're aware that it is chemically induced. Garak was no longer capable of distinguishing friend from foe."

Odo joined in. "Your honor, surely Doctor Bashir provided you with the results of his research on the compound and its effects on Mister Garak and the members of the Third Battalion."

The judge nodded. "I have studied Doctor Bashir's findings, and verify that the records of Garak's brain chemistry before recovery were nearly identical to the imbalance found in the Cardassian soldiers he killed. Additionally, previous neural imaging records indicate that the drug drastically altered his normal mental state. I have compared these findings and consider them significant in determining the possible innocence of Mister Garak. At the least, it is established that he is normally sane and reasonable, and the behavior he displayed while drugged was quite different from his normal personality."

Bashir breathed a silent sigh of relief, but told himself not to get too complacent. The audience behind him murmured, probably displeased.

"Nevertheless," said Rebecca, "This is not enough to establish innocence beyond reasonable doubt. There is still the question of why Garak withheld crucial information, including the true reason for going to Empok Nor, as well as the fact that he was drugged."

"Objection," Odo growled. "Your honor, there is no evidence that Garak _knew_ he was drugged like the other soldiers. At most he may have thought there was something wrong with him. But it would be quite a leap to say he knew what was happening all along."

"Let's come at this directly," said Rebecca. "Doctor Bashir, has Mister Garak admitted that he was aware of being drugged at any point during the mission at Empok Nor.?"

Bashir took another slow breath, anticipating how the room might respond to how he phrased his answer. Still, humans and Bolians were different than simple numbers, harder to calculate with so many unknowns. He couldn't know for sure.

"Garak was preoccupied with searching the station for useful material," Bashir finally said. "That was the purpose of the mission. He realized something was wrong before he killed Amaro, but… as I understand it, the situation was already quite stressful. He may have decided that informing people that he felt a little strange was less important than stopping the two soldiers who were killing off his comrades."

Rebecca nodded. "If what you say is true, and he was not aware of the drug at all, it's still possible he was planning to take the crew prisoner once they arrived at the station… perhaps trade them to Cardassians for Dominion secrets."

"And skin some Bolians!" cried one of Boq'ta's relatives, his voice thick with rage. "Take some of it home to wrap his sweetheart in! Bolians are nothing more than animals to those monsters!"

There was a general outcry from the little knot of Bolians, one of them joining in while the other two shushed them.

"This is a court of law!" interjected Captain Jameson loudly. "This is not a venue for racist bickering or spreading ridiculous stereotypes!"

"I apologize for my father," said one of the younger Bolians, looking annoyed. "We know Cardassians don't really wear Bolian skin."

"Maybe not _anymore_ ," huffed her father.

"Enough," Jameson said softly, but with a clear hard edge. "Race is only relevant when it comes to extreme psychological differences. While it is true that in temperament, Cardassians are as a rule more prone to violence than some, Klingons are also quite aggressive, yet are often accepted as friends of the Federation. In a Federation court, individuals are not to be judged merely as a representative of their race. I will not lock Mister Garak up purely because he is a Cardassian. We are here to determine the facts of Mister Amaro's death and whether Garak's role in it is enough to warrant punishment. That is all." She took a deep breath. "I will allow comments and questions from spectators only so long as they are civil and relevant. Otherwise I may choose to have any of you removed from the proceedings.

The room was silent except for uncomfortable shifting in the seats.

"Now, to get back to the matter at hand." The judge gripped the edge of her desk. "It is of little consequence whether or not Mister Garak could have informed others that he was drugged. Considering that the crew was already being hunted by the Third Battalion, Mister Garak cannot be prosecuted merely for prioritizing defense against a known enemy, rather than informing his crew of exposure to an unknown drug. That leaves us with the following question: what was Mister Garak's motive for bringing this crew to Empok Nor, and why did he see fit to hide that motive from his crewmates?"

"Thank you, your honor," said Rebecca. "Constable, is Mister Garak normally a candid and trusting person?"

After a moment of silence, Odo turned to Bashir. "Doctor Bashir, I believe you can testify more accurately on this point than I can."

Bashir exhaled suddenly, almost a laugh. What could he say? "Garak is a very private person. He's… careful about what he says and who he says it to."

"Are you saying that he is _normally_ paranoid?" asked Rebecca, almost smiling.

"Paranoia is the false belief that people are out to get you… perhaps even the world is conspiring against you. Garak has a lot of enemies since he was exiled from Cardassia… and because he's a former operative for the Obsidian Order. I don't think I would call his secretive nature a sign of paranoia, given the circumstances. It's a rational response to the events in his life." Besides that, Bashir thought, Cardassians just aren't as forthright as humans. But if he said that, it might spark more racist remarks.

Jameson interrupted. "Has Mister Garak expressed to either of you why it was Amaro in particular that he killed?"

Bashir cleared his throat. "He did say that he thought Amaro was going to kill him. But, that was while his mind was still coming off the drug. Later, he stated that it was pure bloodlust."

"Chief O'Brien—did you observe any antagonism between Amaro and Garak during the mission?" The judge asked.

O'Brien looked reluctantly at Bashir. "Well…." He rubbed his hands over one another. "Everyone was jumpy after Pechetti and Stolzoff died. Garak said he was going to go look for the soldiers, against my orders, and… Amaro pointed a phaser rifle at his head, tried to threaten 'im into staying put." O'Brien glanced next at Amaro's widow. Her eyes were steely.

"So now my son is being accused?" asked Tate. "He's not the one who murdered a fellow crewman."

"Chief O'Brien merely answered my question," said Jameson. "Thank you, Chief. Was this the only instance of friction between Garak and the rest of the group before Garak killed Amaro?"

O'Brien shrugged. "I've noticed he likes to argue with people. Garak, I mean. But he doesn't mean anything by it…I think." Again, he glanced at Bashir. "I fought in the battle at Setlik Three, and he brought that up on the way to the station. I'm not sure why. He was also teasing Nog about how he was playing… kotra." He said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "But I didn't notice anything else. It wasn't really that unusual."

"If I may interrupt, your honor," said Bashir. "It seems clear to me that whether or not Amaro's actions increased Garak's paranoia, the evidence suggests more and more strongly that he is not a murderer. If he targeted Amaro specifically because of that incident, that doesn't change the fact that at that point, he had already killed both Cardassian soldiers without premeditated intent. The drug was the cause. He told me two versions of why he killed Amaro. One was out of fear and self-preservation, which makes sense when the compound's effects are taken into account. The other was out of bloodlust, which is not something I have ever observed in Garak before. If that was the true motive behind killing Amaro, then I take it as further proof that Garak was not at all in his right mind at that point. I'm not sure why we are revisiting the question—the medical evidence proves that he was not in control of himself when he killed Amaro."

It took effort for him to keep from gesturing. He kept his voice level, professional, just diagnosing the situation.

"He doesn't kill out of the pleasure of killing. Garak is someone who calculates every decision carefully. There is always a rational goal behind his actions. Killing someone out of pure bloodlust… is simply not part of his psychological makeup. He might kill for the greater good, as a soldier does. He might kill out of self-preservation. But that's all he's capable of in his right mind."

Bashir wondered how much of what he'd just said was true. Of course there was always doubt and caution when it came to Garak. Garak would have been ashamed of him otherwise. But there was a deep certainty somewhere in his gut that was entirely impossible to prove. Even if he brought up all of Garak's medical history and gave a days-long presentation on all he'd learned, such a presentation might actually do more harm than good… it was a matter of interpretation at this point.

Captain Jameson looked at him almost pityingly. "I appreciate your candid testimony, Doctor Bashir. But I wasn't asking because I doubted the medical evidence. The real question is whether or not—and why—Mister Garak would knowingly put his own priorities above cooperation with his crew. He was not in command of the mission—Chief O'Brien was. And he chose not to inform his commanding officer of crucial information related to why the crew even went to Empok Nor. That decision indirectly resulted in the death of crewman Amaro."

"That's not fair!" Bashir cried before he could stop himself. "Garak isn't a member of Starfleet. He's not obligated to follow the chain of command to the letter! If this were about some negligent Ensign under the same circumstances, we might not even be having this trial! Garak was brought along as a sort of security consultant, not as a formal member of the crew. He didn't have to share every bit of information with Chief O'Brien, or defer important spur-of-the-moment decisions to him!"

"Doctor," Odo growled warningly under his breath. "Let me handle this."

Bashir glanced at him and then back at the judge. He took a deep breath before he sat down. That outburst should have been more calculated. He should have cited specific Starfleet regulations. He knew many of them by heart, not because he was a stickler for them but simply because his memory was so impeccable. And beyond that, he had gotten off the real issue again.

The judge looked a bit surprised, but otherwise unruffled. "Your objection has been noted, Doctor Bashir. Chief O'Brien, you and Nog are the only living witnesses. What do you think Garak's motive was for withholding the reason for the mission?"

Chief O'Brien blinked slowly at the table. Bashir could see his mind working carefully, and hoped it would be enough.

"He's just like that," O'Brien shrugged. "He has his own plans. If I had to guess, I'd say something having to do with getting back at the Dominion."

"And why would he not share this strategic information with the Federation? We have a common enemy, after all."

"Your honor, if I could speak." Bashir stood again, barely knowing what he was going to say or if it would make a difference. "I am more familiar with Garak's motives than anyone else here."

"That's quite a bold statement, Doctor," said the judge. "Please enlighten us, then."

Bashir took a deep breath. "Thank you, your honor. Garak has lived much of his life in hiding, either under alias as a member of the Obsidian Order, or as a fugitive and an exile. He has connections and contacts, but this network can only be maintained with constant vigilance and secrecy. If he told us all of what he plans to do, and all of the ways in which he plans to do it, that network would collapse and become useless, both to us and to him. That network could be invaluable in the days to come if the Federation goes openly to war with the Dominion. If he does something which could be for the benefit of the Federation, and it goes wrong, he is the only one who shoulders the consequences. If he tells no one what he is doing, then it's useless for his enemies to capture or interrogate his allies. If Garak is keeping the reason for his mission to Empok Nor a secret, then it is either to protect us, or it is because he has some private mission he wants to carry out for the greater good without interference."

" _His_ mission to Empok Nor, you say," said Tate. "That is exactly the problem here. _His_ mission got people killed—his mission which he took no responsibility for. If it was his mission, then he should take responsibility for what happened to my son, and the other crewmembers that went on the mission not knowing of dangers which Mister Garak most likely was well aware of."

"If I could say something, your honor," said Chief O'Brien, rising reluctantly.

"Go ahead, Chief."

"Every mission has unknowns. Every Starfleet officer knows that. Should we accuse every commanding officer of every away mission? Are they guilty of negligence every time they lead their crew into a dangerous situation and someone gets hurt? Sometimes we don't even know all the details of a mission. They're provided on a need-to-know basis."

"The difference here is a matter of authority," said the judge. "Mister Garak had no authority to independently and secretly arrange a mission."

"But is he breaking any laws?" asked Odo suddenly. "The most he should be charged with is damage to the station, and the punishment for that falls under my jurisdiction. He cannot be charged with conspiracy—there is no evidence that he was working with the members of the Third Battalion or anyone other than the Federation. No evidence that he intended for anyone on his crew to die. What is he being charged with? If he was unaware of any significant or unusual danger, then how can he be charged with manslaughter, even through negligence? Negligence to predict the future?"

Jameson nodded slowly. "In order to do that, we must prove that Garak was aware of, as you put it, significant or unusual danger."

Tate frowned. "Can we prove that he was unaware of such danger? It's far more likely that he _was_ aware of it!"

"Innocent until proven guilty," Odo said slowly, fixing the judge with an unwavering stare. " _That_ is the rule. The burden of proof is on the prosecution, not on the defense. If the prosecution brings up evidence of criminal activity, it is up to us to refute it, but supposition and empty accusation is meaningless in a court of law."

"Constable Odo is correct," said the judge. "It has already been established through medical evidence that Mister Garak was not in his right mind when he killed Crewman Amaro. He is not guilty of murder. He may be guilty of manslaughter, only if the prosecution can present specific evidence that the deaths of the crew were a direct result of criminal activity or conspiracy on his part."

"Thank you for the reminder, your honor," said Rebecca stiffly. "I have a question for you, Doctor Bashir."

Bashir put his hands behind his back and faced her squarely. "Go ahead."

"You seem to be the resident expert on Mister Garak's motives. Does Mister Garak regret causing the entire mission to Empok Nor?"

"Yes. His feelings of remorse include his decision to damage the plasma manifold."

"Did he care, at that point, whether he put the lives of Federation officers at risk?"

Bashir held his breath for a few seconds, remembering. _I didn't care if_ anyone _on my crew got hurt._

_You say much more than you realize._

"Yes." Bashir nodded. "Yes, he cared about the lives of the crew."

"Oh? Has he said as much to you? What were his exact words?"

"Exact words?" Bashir said softly. "I can't say with any certainty. I'd rather not try to reconstruct it word-for-word—it would be inaccurate anyway, and useless to examine. But from what I remember him saying, he clearly never wanted anyone on that crew to die. He never expected the danger to be that great. It was supposed to be a simple mission, to gather supplies. That's all he ever intended."

"He said all this to you?" Rebecca's expression was grim.

Bashir barely hesitated. "Yes."

"I see. You may be seated. Constable—"

As Bashir sat, he felt his heart drumming softly against his chest. What he'd just done was a far cry from making up conflicting accounts of events, but he still felt one step closer to understanding what Garak meant about lies being true. When the truth of what Garak had verbally said was a lie, then what did that make what he'd just told Mrs. Amaro—and the entire courtroom?

...

Ziyal slid her hand into Garak's and gripped it tightly. He spared her a quick glance and tiny smile before his eyes snapped back onto the lift from which Chief O'Brien, Odo, and Doctor Bashir would re-enter the promenade at the end of the trial. A knot of people who had just emerged caught his attention.

"The families," Garak murmured, and Ziyal followed the subtle nod he gave in their direction. There were three Bolians, saying goodbye to a human woman with Amaro's nose. They extended their hands palms-downward with fingers curled, and the woman and another empty-eyed female took those blue hands and gripped them tightly for a moment. Some of the group made eye contact, some didn't. There were a few human men standing off to one side, watching, looking drained.

Garak led Ziyal back into the doorway of Quark's, where they'd just finished eating dinner. A Bajoran deputy followed him with her eyes—something he'd have to grudgingly thank Odo for later.

"I think it's better if we keep our distance."

"It's not your fault," Ziyal said.

Garak smiled thinly. "I almost wish I knew how many times you've said that to me, my dear, since I first corrected you. I would think my explanation would have cleared up any misunderstanding by now."

"If your guilt was certain, there wouldn't be a trial happening right now."

"An intriguing perspective. I doubt _they_ share it," Garak murmured with a bemused look. He watched one of the men in the background—wearing a Starfleet uniform—excuse himself from the group with restrained, agitated movements. "I wouldn't if I were in their place."

"Don't say things like that." Ziyal's dismay cut through his sullen self-examination. "What if they make you leave the station?"

"And _where_ exactly would they put me?" Garak tried to sound teasing. He squeezed Ziyal's hand. "No," he sighed lightly. "They'll probably just sentence me to another long stay in Odo's brig. At least I'll be in good company." With all his dwelling on prison camps, deaths, and narrow spaces the last few days, Garak was about to speculate on the likelihood of being handed over to the Dominion, but just as he opened his mouth, the lift doors opened and another small crowd emerged.

One more Bolian. Well, perhaps Boq'ta had a large family. More humans, too: some in uniform, some not. The red uniform of a commanding officer—probably the judge. O'Brien, Bashir, Odo, Dax, and one of Bashir's nurses. Garak waited for one of them to break from the group and come closer, but to his dismay, one of the human women—in a science officer uniform—was headed right for the spot where he was standing.

He ushered Ziyal toward a darker corner under the stairs before cautiously approaching the entrance again. The Bajoran deputy stepped out to intercept the woman.

"I saw Mister Garak come into this bar," she told the Bajoran. "I want to talk to him."

"Ah," said Garak, stepping into the woman's line of sight. "A new customer? What can I do for you?"

The Bajoran deputy stepped back, still holding her phaser at the ready.

"Are you the one who saw my husband die?" the woman asked bluntly.

"Well, that depends." Garak toned down his smile—he didn't want to insult her, after all. "On who your husband is, of course."

"Roy Amaro," said the woman. "I heard Mister Garak is the only Cardassian on Deep Space Nine, so you must be him."

"Very astute." Garak let the smile fall away completely. "What, ah… exactly would you like to talk about?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to know the last thing Roy saw." She eyed him carefully. "You don't seem like a murderer. But you never can tell just by looking at someone."

"No," said Garak softly, eyebrows high. "You can't."

Amaro's widow stared at him for a moment longer, as if still trying to see past his skin. Finally, she said, "I received your apology from Chief O'Brien."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"I want to hear it from your own mouth," she muttered grimly.

Garak opened his mouth, shut it, and took a slow breath, blinking.

"Did you plan on some of them dying?" she asked. "Did you factor that into your schemes to get to Empok Nor? Was that even something that went through your head when you broke that plasma manifold?"

He should have known the doctor would tell someone. Those Federation ideals of his…. well, this was it, wasn't it? Garak glanced at where Ziyal looked on from the shadows. They would probably haul him away before he had a chance to say goodbye.

He looked back at the woman, whose face was admirably calm despite the undercurrent of anger and grief in her voice.

"I didn't know," he said quietly, politely. "About the biogenic compound, or the soldiers. I didn't plan on anyone dying, if that's what you're asking. I am sorry for your loss."

She stared at him, took a deep breath, and sighed through her teeth. Then she turned and walked away.

Garak watched her go, and saw Odo approaching.

"I'm all yours, Constable," said Garak when he was close enough to hear. "Unless, of course, I'm being taken off the station."

"That won't be necessary, Garak," said Bashir's voice, behind him.

Garak spun to face him. He was coming down the stairs. "Why—Doctor—! Were you _spying_ on me?"

"Only for a moment." Bashir's grin was altogether too wide; it was almost disturbing.

"Congratulations," Odo said, feigning nonchalance. "You've been cleared of all charges, apart from a little property damage. But I'm sure your earnings from the tailor shop can clear that up eventually."

"You mean he's not going to be arrested?" Ziyal pushed her way into their little group.

Bashir bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, as he sometimes did when secretly gloating over his superior skill at darts. "No arrests. No sentences. The prosecution couldn't summon enough evidence to prove he was guilty of anything illegal."

"Well," Garak huffed. "Incompetence on the part of my enemies has saved my life before. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."

"Garak!" cried Bashir. "Are you insulting Odo's knowledge of Federation law?"

"Of course not, Doctor! Make no mistake—I _am_ grateful, I just don't see how any _real_ court of law could let someone so _obviously_ nefarious go free on some mere _technicality_ like lack of evidence!"

"Well, if it makes you feel any better," Odo said with a patronizing smile, "in a Cardassian court, I'm sure you'd be dead already."

"Thank you, Constable. At least someone understands me."

Ziyal's laugh was interrupted by Quark's obnoxious yell.

"Can I get you gentlemen some drinks to celebrate or are you just gonna stand around obstructing traffic so none of my _paying_ customers can get in?"

"Well!" Bashir said. "I could go for a little something. Garak?"

"Ah-just a moment, Doctor. Constable, before you go…." Garak stepped in front of Odo, who had made for the door at the first mention of drinks.

"Yes?" Odo stopped.

Garak hesitated, and his words came out blunt. "Thank you."

Odo didn't say anything, just stood for a moment, nodded, then walked away with arms folded. It was odd—one would think that Odo, who used words so sparingly and carefully, would be even harder for Garak to communicate with than a talkative human like Doctor Bashir. But the Constable knew words were used more often to obscure meaning than to reveal it.

Bashir and Ziyal were waiting for him at the bar. Garak slid onto the stool between them. "Red-leaf tea, please."

"Tea again? Are you sure you don't want a little Kanar?" Quark prodded. "I got a new shipment in, just for you."

"Just tea," Garak said, and when Quark had walked off, he added, "I've had quite enough of mind-altering substances for the moment."

"I can imagine," Bashir grinned. "But it's all over now. And you know what the best part is?"

"What's that, Doctor?" Garak asked.

Bashir smirked as he lifted his glass. "I didn't even have to lie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! :D


	14. Ziyal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place during 5x26 "A Call to Arms", and refers to information from Andrew Robinson's book, "A Stitch in Time."
> 
> Fear not, brave readers. Another chapter will be coming VERY soon, and the one after should also materialize before long.

Odo was normally an attentive conversation partner when he met Garak for breakfast. After all, he wasn’t exactly busy eating, so the conversation was all he was there for. But he had just let Garak go on for five minutes dropping hints about Quark’s questionable business practices without once interrupting to ask for more details. He just stared into his imaginary mug, sloshing its contents around—sloshing himself around, Garak thought.

“Constable?” he prompted.

“Hm?” Odo jerked and looked around as if expecting someone to sneak up on him. “You were saying?”

“Thinking about how to confess to Major Kira?”

“ _What?_ ” Odo half-snarled. He shifted stiffly in his seat before he jutted his chin away in a motion like grinding his teeth. “Hmph. Hmhm,” he feigned a mocking laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He took a pretend swig of his pretend tea as an excuse to hide his face.

“Oh come now, Odo,” Garak said in sweet exasperation before he dropped to a near-whisper. “You know better than to underestimate my talent for observation. You may be good at hiding it from her—goodness knows, she certainly _seems_ a bit blind to it. But I know better.”

“We’re friends. Colleagues.” Odo said bluntly, staring straight into Garak’s eye and shaking his head slightly. “That’s all.”

“True,” said Garak graciously. “For now. I didn’t ask about the status of your relationship. I merely pointed out that there’s no point in hiding your feelings about her from me. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve been struggling with them for quite some time?”

Odo put his other hand around his “mug”, his shoulders hunched miserably. After a long moment he muttered hoarsely, “There’s no point in talking about what can never happen. For your information, I was actually thinking about all the Dominion ships coming through the wormhole lately. It’s only a matter of time before the station is attacked.”

“Ah,” Garak said softly. “Yes. Things _are_ looking… rather grim.” He’d been watching the influx of ships heading toward Cardassia too, trying not to let the sight of it pull him further into the depression he’d been fighting ever since Empok Nor. Yes, he’d gone back to cautiously monitoring the situation on Cardassia as best he could, but his information network was a little stale at the moment, and he hadn’t gotten much beyond what was common knowledge.

“I don’t suppose you’ve gotten any news from the resistance on Cardassia,” Odo asked, right on cue.

“Believe me,” Garak sighed, “If I _had_ information which could alter the current chain of events, I would certainly put it to good use. It seems there’s nothing to do but wait for the inevitable. It’s maddening, isn’t it?” Garak tugged free the napkin he’d tucked into his collar. “With nothing to do but sit back and watch fate pull us toward the brink of destruction.”

“On the other hand,” Odo murmured, “it tends to put certain… other problems into perspective.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling briefly.

“Hmm,” Garak said. “Unfortunately, I don’t consider a little perspective to be a very satisfying compensation prize.”

Both of them turned with relief as Rom and Leeta approached their table.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt,” Rom said, hands clasped in front of his chest. “Hello, Garak,” he blurted. “Leeta and I were wondering if you could make our wedding dress. I mean—she’s wearing a dress, I’m not, but we’d be happy to have you make my outfit too!”

“You’re getting married?” Garak broke into an obligatory grin and rose, reaching a hand out to touch both their shoulders briefly. Leeta’s smile was radiant. “How wonderful! Congratulations to both of you. Why don’t we meet at Quark’s later this afternoon and I’ll bring the entire catalog of designs? Say, fourteen hundred hours?”

“Great!” Leeta squealed. “Thank you!” She grabbed Rom by the shoulders. “I can’t wait!”

“Me too,” Rom said hesitantly.

“I’m sure it’s going to be gorgeous!”

“Not as gorgeous as you,” Rom said shyly. Leeta made an adoring “ohhh!” and nuzzled his nose. Odo averted his eyes.

“Well, then,” Garak hinted, “I suppose it’s time for me to go open up shop.”

Rom and Leeta said their goodbyes and thank-yous and wandered off, Leeta making little wordless exclamations every few feet. Odo stood and the mug of tea melted back into his hand.

“Apparently we all have very different ways of reacting to a crisis,” Garak mused as he watched them leave.

 

...

Less than twenty-six hours later, the threat of Dominion attack went from a vague worry to something with a projected ETA. When the next convoy tried to come through in three days, they would hit the minefield being deployed by the wormhole, and backlash from the ships in Cardassian space would be inevitable. Worst of all, there was little Garak could do other than distract himself with designing Leeta’s wedding dress.

Ziyal stuck with him for a good part of nearly every day, even accompanying him to his usual lunch with Bashir. It felt heartless to shrug her off when he knew her future was nearly as uncertain as his. Garak spent a lot of time listening to the conversation in Quark’s, sometimes with Ziyal, sometimes alone. Then one day a little ping went off on Garak’s datapad late in the evening while he and Ziyal were in the sauna, both of them trying to relax in the midst of all this tension.

“What’s that?” Ziyal asked sleepily.

“Oh, just an update from Rom about the wedding dress,” Garak said, eyes fixed on the coded automatic data from the station’s security net. Through its notifications, he knew that a Jem’Hadar ship had docked earlier, and until now, Sisko had been in a meeting with the Bajoran Council of Ministers. The meeting was over.

“Is he asking you to make it transparent?” Ziyal laughed.

“Ah, no, he’s simply begging me for details,” Garak smirked, and tucked the datapad away again. “I told him he’ll just have to wait until our appointment tonight!”

“Do you have to bring your work everywhere with you?” Ziyal sighed.

Garak glanced at her, resting his back against the hot rock with his hands folded on his chest. She was watching him, as usual, lying on her side, never seeming to tire of his face.

“Well! _Normally_ I keep my work and private life separate,” Garak teased. “But we’ve been spending so much time together I have no choice but to stay in touch with my customers this way. I hope I haven’t offended you.”

“I’m not offended,” Ziyal said. She fell silent, and Garak wondered if she was finally questioning the wisdom of her feelings toward him. “You know,” she said at long last. “With everyone talking about a Dominion attack, it seems like everyone’s coming closer together. Rom and Leeta are getting married… and I heard that Dax and Worf are thinking about getting married.”

Oh dear. He could already see where she was headed with this, and it wasn’t any place he was comfortable going. The romantic desperation that seemed to have overtaken the entire station had not really been allowed to touch him yet.

“There does seem to be something in the air,” he replied casually. “I’ve seen it before. In desperate times like these, everyone looks for something to hold on to. They like to pretend they can control at least _one_ aspect of their future.”

“Or they already know that the future is never certain,” Ziyal said quietly. “And they don’t want to have any regrets if something happens.”

Garak’s heart twisted and he tried to think of a way to get out of this.

“Garak,” Ziyal said, reaching out to touch his chest so he couldn’t ignore her. “You keep trying to discourage me from being with you, but you never really explained why.”

“But my dear, I _have_ answered you on more than one occasion.” Garak glanced over at her face. She was calm, but so vulnerable.

“Maybe you have, but I don’t know which reason is the real one.” She looked searchingly at his face, lifted her hand to gently trace his eye ridges. Garak reached up to stop her, gently guiding her hand back down toward the rock. She didn’t protest.

“I’m afraid,” Garak said softly, “That just goes to show how little you really know about me. And I think that’s for the best.”

“So is that it, then? You think I deserve better than you, or that I won’t love you if I know everything about your past? I know you were exiled from Cardassia. I know you were a spy for the Obsidian Order—I know you’ve… assassinated people!” She didn’t flinch away from the words for more than a fraction of a second. “I know you’re willing to do terrible things for what you believe in, but so is my father, and it doesn’t change the fact that I love him! It doesn’t change the fact that I love you either.”

“Comparing me to your father? I’m not sure if I should be flattered or insulted.”

“This isn’t about him, Garak,” Ziyal protested. “Unless you’re saying it is? Are you afraid that he’ll do something terrible to one of us? Is that why you don’t want to stay with me?”

“The possibility _is_ ever-present,” Garak pointed out, “but he’s no doubt assumed we’re courting in earnest for a long time now, and he hasn’t managed to kill me yet.”

“So it’s not my father. There’s a different reason. It’s someone else….” She leaned very close, so that their foreheads were almost touching, holding Garak by the shoulders as she stared into his eyes. “It’s Doctor Bashir, isn’t it?”

“My dear, do you realize how forward you’re being?” Garak asked.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Ziyal protested. “I’m being forward because I want to be with you! But you only want Doctor Bashir. That’s the real reason, isn’t it?” She put a finger to his lips when he opened his mouth to argue. “Don’t lie. You’ve already told me how you feel about him, remember?” Her voice, her face, was soft and sad. “I guess I just thought… maybe you’d changed your mind.”

Stunned, Garak waited for her to take her hand away, then laughed lightly. “Ziyal, that was all just a misunderstanding. Me and Doctor Bashir?”

“Don't laugh like it's some joke! If it really was, then what happened before? Did you really make it all up, that whole supposed relationship, just to drive me away?” The hurt in her voice was quite evident.

“Even if it _were_ true, even if I really did have some sort of... _feelings_ for the doctor, do you really think I would dwell on it when he clearlyhas no romantic interest in someone like me? Do you think I would waste other opportunities hoping for an impossible change of heart like....” _Like you?_ he couldn't help but think.

“ _I'm_ another opportunity,” she said. “Won't you at least try to take me seriously? You don't have to commit to anything but one date at a time. Please give me a chance to show you how much I care about you!”

Garak looked into her eyes, seriously, but not unkindly. “My dear, you and I are very different people. We have some similarities, but we have led _very_ different lives. You are young, innocent, idealistic—”

“Like Doctor Bashir,” she said pointedly.

How could he tell her that her and Doctor Bashir may as well be on opposite sides of the wormhole in terms of their mental similarity? Doctor Bashir was not so naïve, not so innocent. He was a genius, one of the few who could keep up with Garak's philosophizing, who could see through the layers of his lies and uncover the seed of truth from which they sprung, much to Garak's annoyance and admiration. Ziyal was a nice girl, a true friend, but she could never be the intellectual equal to him that Doctor Bashir was. All of this was true, possibly the most revelatory truth about their relationship he could tell her, and yet it was the one thing he didn't have the heart to say.

Ziyal mistook his hesitance as an indication that this line was nothing more than another diversion from the truth, rather than the heart of the truth itself. “You're trying to protect me,” she said. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me because you’re afraid your past will somehow taint me, that I can’t handle the truth about you. But I _want_ you to be honest with me, Garak!” Ziyal moved her head closer to his. Garak pulled back, just a little, just enough to let her know that that was close enough. “I’m stronger than you think. No matter what you’ve done, it won’t change the way I feel about you.”

“I’d really rather not test that fact,” Garak warned. “ _You_ believe you can handle any aspect of who I really am, but the truth is that you don’t know the first thing about me.”

“You’re right,” Ziyal said. “But that just means that dishonesty is a part of who you are, and I think I’ve proven I can be patient with that part of you. I’ve proven I can handle the lies. But now I’m ready for the truth, too.” She stared at him steadily, determined. “I want the truth, Garak.”

“A spy is useless if he can’t keep secrets, my dear.”

“You don’t have to tell me everything. You don’t have to tell me names. Just whatever it is that you think I’ll hate you for, so I can prove you wrong.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking.” Garak shifted so he was up on one elbow and could see her face more clearly. “But you are right about one thing. The reason I haven’t told you yet is that I’m really quite selfish, and I’d hate for you to stop speaking with me. Besides… it would be a shock to you. It’s better that you don’t know. Trust me.”

Ziyal raised herself on one arm too so she could look him in the eye imploringly. “Garak, do you really have so little respect for me? Do you think I’m that weak?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Garak raised his eyebrows. “Secrets can break people—can change the course of history. I should know.”

“You have to give me a chance,” Ziyal pleaded. “I’m tired of wondering what’s holding us back. I know you’ve already decided that it won’t work between us, but I haven’t! I’m not going to stop asking until I have a chance to prove you wrong.”

Garak frowned at her, wishing there was a kinder way out of this mess. He should never have led her on as long as he had. Depending on the truth he told, he could either wound her trust or wound her pride; he knew which one of those he would choose.

“It’s cruel of you to keep me guessing,” Ziyal continued. “If you truly don’t think it will work, and you’re so confident that I’ll agree if I know the truth, then what are you waiting for? What’s the use of being loved by someone who would hate you if they knew the truth?”

At that, Garak dropped whatever ghost of a smile was left on his face and sat up. “So be it,” he said coldly, looking down his nose at her. “You are right. I have assassinated people. But if that were the extent of it, I would spare little more thought to it than if I had been a tailor all along. By the end of this war, none of us shall be strangers to the fine art of murder.”

Ziyal stared up at him with a guarded look. He continued.

“No, my dear,” he whispered, “I tortured people, and I did it well. I strung out their minds and souls until I could take what I wanted, and I never worried about what I left behind. Consider yourself fortunate that you are completely ignorant of Cardassian methods of interrogation. It didn’t matter to me whether it was a soldier, civilian, or politician; whether the party was guilty or innocent. I was Tain's most prized protege, and he kept me very busy. I never questioned him, or the morality of what I was doing, as one victim became ten, which soon turned to hundreds. You already know your grandfather himself was among them.”

“My father never told me much more about him,” Ziyal said in a hushed tone. "Was he an enemy of the state?"

“He was a Chief Justice of the court, and a criminal. I was part of the investigation that led to his arrest, and I also interrogated him during his time in prison. He was just one of many that died at the conclusion of his usefulness. Your father has never forgotten who led to his family’s disgrace,” Garak said stiffly. “Nor should you.”

“What kind of criminal was he?” Ziyal pressed.

“If you’re seeking some justification for my actions, you are doing so in vain. I wasn’t ordered to kill him, but I did anyway. The lives of others meant nothing to me but for their usefulness in ingratiating myself to Enabran Tain. The death of a subject was barely worth note.”

Ziyal’s voice was small. “But there must have been a good reason for the things you did, even if you didn't know them.”

“A good reason?” Garak said, his voice quiet and quivering with tension. “A good reason for manipulating Procal Dukat's mind? For fooling him into thinking he was _safe,_ that I was his son simply asking for advice so that I could succeed him? A _good reason_ for turning up the agony in his nervous center too quickly, past even the usual levels required for interrogation, because I was in a _hurry,_ not caring that it might permanently damage his body, only worried because if it _did_ , my enemies might then realize that I had been there, and be able to track me down? A good reason for feeling not even the tiniest pang of remorse when he died?”

Ziyal struggled to find something to say. “That was in the past. Everyone has regrets.”

“But I _don't_ regret what I did, don't you see?” Garak stared into her eyes, never turning his face away. Ziyal was having a hard time keeping eye contact.”The only thing about my past that I _regret_ is letting Tain have the degree of emotional control over me that he had. But I’ve barely spared a thought to those who paid the price of that loyalty.” Garak waved a hand to signal that his concern for the lives of his victims was no greater than for dust in the air.

“But I know you wouldn’t do something like that now,” Ziyal said faintly. “Even if you don't think about the past... you've _changed_. You're not the same man now you were then.”

Garak laughed coldly and shook his head. He then looked back into her eyes. “How wrong you are. Just a few months before you joined us, I interrogated Odo. I tortured him even though I _knew_ he didn’t have the information Tain wanted.”

“Tain? You mean you were working for your father again? I thought he rejected you.”

“That’s just the point, my dear. Tain was willing to take me back if I proved my loyalty,” Garak said, his voice a low purr. “My old life. My old job. That’s _all_ I cared about. Far from turning over a new leaf, I was _excited_ to be given the opportunity to use my gift for interrogation again. Now you know that at least _part_ of what your father says is true. I _am_ the kind of person who would stab someone—a friend—in the back, if I thought it would be to my advantage.”

Ziyal’s eyes went down and Garak was satisfied that she was finally beginning to understand that he was not someone she should be associating with at all.

But then, after a moment, Ziyal looked up, and although Garak thought he could detect fear in her eyes, there was determination as well. “It couldn’t have been as bad as you’re making out. And you obviously changed your mind—otherwise you and Odo wouldn’t be friends today.”

“No!” he snarled, making her jump. “Ziyal, I betrayed him with barely a second thought! He arranged things so that I could try to find Tain when I thought the man was in danger; Odo was _helping_ me, and when we _did_ find Tain, I turned on him immediately once Tain indicated that Odo had information he wanted. I agreed without batting an eye. As far as I was concerned, Odo wasn’t even there anymore. He was just a single piece in the game, and the only players I cared about were me and Tain. I only cared about Odo as a way to get me closer to what I wanted!”

“But you care about him now,” Ziyal protested weakly.

Garak stared at her, sitting with her face upturned, watching him desperately. “I timed it perfectly,” he said, with no trace of emotion. “Tain gave me a device that could prevent Odo from changing shape, and I turned it on right when I knew it was time for him to revert to his gelatinous form. I taunted him, sneered at him, only acted as if I knew him when I wanted to use our so-called friendship as a ploy to get him to talk.”

Ziyal was still too calm. She needed to realize the full horror of what he was saying. He grabbed her by the shoulders, raised his voice, and some part of him was pleased when she flinched. “He told me over and over that he _didn’t know anything!_ The betrayal in his eyes _thrilled_ me!” Garak laughed and cut himself off, reminded with a sick jolt of how he’d acted on Empok Nor. But this was necessary. She had to understand. “Tain knew me better than anyone, and he knew that deep down I _enjoy_ interrogating people. Making them vulnerable, slowly tearing back the layers of information until I could finally get the one piece I was looking for!” Garak’s teeth were bared, clenched around his words. “Where do you think I _learned_ everything I know about avoiding the truth, Ziyal?”

Tears were welling up in Ziyal's eyes and she swallowed, but her jaw was set.

“I pressed Odo for hours,” Garak hissed. “He started to fall apart. He was in so much pain he could barely speak, shaking in the corner. Soon, he started thrashing around as if he were being electrocuted.” Garak’s voice got quieter and harsher. “Bits of him started to peel off and fall on the floor—before too long he looked like he’d been _shredded_ , like an animal caught in some kind of machine. He started to howl wordlessly. _Can you imagine that,_ Ziyal? And I still didn’t turn the machine off, until he got _so desperate_ that he spilled his most private secret to me. He was practically begging me to stop, and I didn’t care.”

Ziyal was rigid, tears going down her cheeks. He released her all at once and crouched in front of her. She took deep breaths, closing and opening her eyes, and he waited.

“Odo obviously forgives you,” she finally whispered. “You even have breakfast together.” She swallowed, and the new fear in her eyes hit him like a frozen wind. “If it doesn’t matter to him, then it doesn’t matter to me. Major Kira says Odo is an excellent judge of character.”

“How good of a judge can a man be when he failed to notice that the one he was offering to help would turn on him at the first opportunity? This story isn't about Odo but rather about the one sitting in front of you, someone you claim to love, but who you do not know. Odo may have forgiven me for betraying him—he's a good man—but that doesn't change the fact that in the innermost core of my being, I am someone who enjoys dissecting people's minds with the most aggressive means necessary, especially in the service of my people. My loyalty to Tain and Cardassia is greater than the love I could ever offer any individual potential lover.”

Ziyal pulled a cloth from her dress and looked down as she wiped her face. Garak exhaled, hoping that finally she understood him. He felt a sickening mess of guilt, anxiety, and sadness. He wondered if he had made a poor choice, if turning her away from pursuing him romantically was worth losing her as a friend. Focusing on these emotions he often tried to leave on the periphery made him feel freshly disgusted with himself, not just because they were true, but because he was using them as a weapon against someone he cared about. But Garak took a deep breath and told himself it was for the best. With the way things were progressing, he was beginning to doubt he would live to see the end of this war, and if that was the case, it was better for her to lose him now in this way than to lose him later as a casualty of war.

“Someday you’ll find someone much more worthy of you than I could ever be,” Garak said softly.

Ziyal remained silent, and Garak, for once, couldn’t think of anything else to say. He stood up and called for the exit to the holosuite.

“I’ll always be your friend,” Ziyal choked out, and Garak looked over to see more tears on her face through the steam.

“Of course,” he said numbly.

They were interrupted when the holosuite door materialized and Major Kira walked inside.

Garak hastily stood back. “Major Kira!” He beamed at her innocently. “What a pleasant surprise. What brings you here so… suddenly?”

Kira only gave him a brief warning glance. “Ziyal, I’ve got some bad news—what is it?” she said, noticing her tears. Kira instantly rounded on Garak. “What'd you do to her.”

“I—” Garak began, but was cut off.

“It's nothing,” Ziyal said miserably, wiping her face a final time. “What did you come to see me for? Is it about my father?” She sat up.

“Not exactly.” Kira’s voice became gentle. “Listen to me, Ziyal. There’s going to be a Dominion attack on the station…. It’s not safe here. Bajor just signed a non-aggression pact with the Dominion, and all the Bajorans on the station are being evacuated to Bajor.” She took Ziyal gently by the shoulders and smiled sympathetically. “That means you too.”

“But—!” Ziyal blurted, glancing desperately between Kira and Garak. “What are you going to do?” she asked Garak. “You can’t stay here. Father will kill you.”

“Don't worry about Garak,” Kira said as she tugged on Ziyal's shoulders.

“I will be fine,” Garak said.

“Come on,” Kira said, gentle but firm. “Let’s go pack your things. I have some friends you’ll be staying with. They’ll take good care of you.”

“You’re not coming?” Ziyal cried.

Kira shook her head. “I can’t.” She exhaled heavily and tilted her head. For a moment she looked nearly as dismayed as Ziyal before she got a grip on herself. “No, I’ve got to stay here as a representative of Bajor.” She gave Ziyal a weak smile.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Garak said gently, holding a hand out to her just as he grasped at her renewed promise of friendship despite everything he had said. “I’ll be sure to come and see you off. I’m sure when things settle down, we’ll see each other again.”

Ziyal gripped his hand tightly, though she still wasn't entirely meeting his eyes. After a moment he pulled away, and she turned to follow Kira.

For the next several hours, the station fell into a barely-organized frenzy. Garak threw together a sorry substitute for the wedding dress he’d promised Leeta so that she and Rom could be married before the evacuation. He packed his things and created contingency plans. Then, a short sleep, and before he knew it, Ziyal was at the door to his quarters, throwing her arms around him. Garak nearly choked at the complete lack of influence their talk had seemed to have on her. Sleeping on it seemed to have brought her some sort of clarity, for better or worse—she was a bit subdued, but no longer in tears as they walked to catch her transport. She was even looking him in the eye again and he felt another pang of guilt noticing that hers still had a hint of redness.

She held his arm and Garak accepted it gratefully—this was the last kindness he could give her for who knows how long, and really it was a comfort to him as well. Up until this moment, he’d been consumed with trying to prepare for his own survival, but now that it came to it, the parting wasn’t going to be easy for him either, even if just a few hours ago, he expected that she would never want to speak to him again. He wasn’t worried about her—she _would_ no doubt be safe on Bajor. It was a brilliant move by Sisko, insisting on a non-aggression pact. But privately, he knew there was a chance that _he_ might not live out the day.

“Are you sure you won’t come with me?” she asked.

“I don’t think I’d be very welcome on Bajor,” Garak said, a laugh in his voice.

“I’m not going to be very popular there either,” Ziyal said sadly.

Garak stopped to the side of the foot traffic and took both her hands. He tried for as earnest a tone as he could muster. “My dear, you are half-Bajoran, so at least half of you will be accepted.”

Ziyal looked down doubtfully.

“I’m sure that Major Kira’s friends will take good care of you,” Garak added.

“Well what’s going to happen to you?” Ziyal asked again. He hadn’t really answered her before, and she deserved something more than a change of subject… something that might actually ease her fears.

He took a quick breath and looked around in an exaggerated show of secrecy “Ooh, well, let me tell you a story.” He paused a beat before diving in. “I once knew a Cardassian, a dashing, handsome young man, with a promising career!” Ziyal was smiling now; she knew where this was going. “Well, one day, through no fault of his own, he found himself exiled and alone, with nowhere to turn. But! Did he give up?” He put his hand on her back and led her forward a few steps before pausing again to gesture and lean close in emphatic whispers. “No. He… struck upon a _brilliant_ plan. Instead of fleeing for the rest of his life, he sought shelter in the one place where no one expected him to go. In a stronghold of his people’s most hated enemies. There, surrounded by hostile strangers, he built a life. And _there_ , against all odds—against the _merciless_ logic of the universe itself… he thrived.”

Ziyal tilted her head up toward him and grinned, mimicking his quiet, emphatic storytelling voice: “By becoming the _greatest_ tailor in the galaxy!” It seemed she was quite keen on pretending he was still little more than the tailor she had known for years.

“And the moral of this story, my dear,” Garak murmured, touching her shoulder gently one last time, “is to _never_ underestimate my gift for survival.”

Some part of him hoped that, given what he knew of her guileless ways, she would see something of herself in the story he’d just told, and know that he considered her a survivor in her own right. Their eyes were locked for several seconds and he could see some kind of comprehension there. Just as when he’d left to answer Tain’s distress call, he felt the common theme of their lives, despite their obvious differences.

But then she rushed forward and kissed him. His head jerked in surprise—slightly. He stopped himself from pulling away. With his hand on the small of her back, he leaned in just a hair before she released him and pulled him into a hug. Garak caught his breath, staring numbly forward as their cheeks pressed together. Poor Ziyal. He held her, gladly, but the kiss… he knew it was a parting gift—her attempt to go without regrets, now that she knew there would be no romantic future for them. But if she could feel his gratitude for her friendship in spite of everything he had done and said, then perhaps nothing else really mattered. He held her tight and smiled encouragingly as she pulled away. Then she turned to leave, and he watched her go.

 

...

For the next hour, Garak weighed his options. There weren’t many. Chances for survival if he hid on the station were slim. Even if the Dominion felt merciful toward him (unlikely, given what both he and Tain had tried to do), Dukat would find a way around their benevolence. His only hope at that point would be to escape by smuggling himself onto another ship, but to where?

Garak packed the essential items and closed up shop. With conflicted feelings he also tucked in a little bag of amaryllis bulbs Ziyal had given him a few days ago. He’d told her about Edosian Orchids, and she hadn’t known just how different amaryllis were, but it was all for the best. Amaryllis were much hardier, much more likely to bloom even without constant care. He didn’t know when he’d have the opportunity to plant them, but they still represented some kind of hope.

He also included the chocolates she’d gotten him the week before (her gift giving had rapidly been increasing before the inevitable confrontation in the sauna) but left the embroidered pillow. Perhaps Dukat would see it and feel a pang of remorse at treating his daughter so despicably. Again, unlikely.

Restless, he ended up pacing around the second level of the promenade, watching the Federation troops take up their positions at intervals below. Odo was watching too, sitting half on the railing with his arms crossed, trying very hard to look completely unconcerned.

“I must say, Constable, I _admire_ your composure,” Garak said as came up next to Odo from behind. “You’re an island of tranquility in a sea of chaos.”

Odo didn’t look at him, just glumly kept his eyes on the patrolling troops. “What I am is useless. My entire staff has been evacuated to Bajor.”

“I’m not feeling too terribly useful myself at this moment,” Garak commiserated. “But if it would make you feel any better you could always deputize me?” He said it as a joke, but if Odo had offered, he certainly wouldn’t have said no.

He was rewarded with a brief laugh from Odo. “I’m sure if the Jem’Hadar board the station you’ll _make_ yourself useful.”

Garak took a deep breath and moved to Odo’s other side to get a different angle of the lower level in view. He could see the very spot where, already so long ago, Ziyal had intercepted his assassination plan. “It’s ironic,” he said. “When the Klingons attacked the station, Gul Dukat and I were fighting side by side. At one point, he turned his back to me, and I must admit… that for a moment, he made a _very_ tempting target.”

Odo finally raised his eyes but seemed relatively unsurprised by Garak’s confession, never mind the dangerous friction in his voice.

“You’d shoot a man in the back?”

“Well, it’s the safest way, isn’t it?” Garak looked at Odo, his insincere smile dying before it was fully formed. His voice dropped to a dull, low tone. “But then I thought, well, I can’t fight all these Klingons by myself. So I let him live.”

“And now you regret it,” Odo nodded.

“Ah, my dear Constable,” Garak said sadly, “Before this day is over everyone on this station is going to regret it.”

Odo didn’t say anything to that. Garak stood for a moment, frustrated by the past until he managed to refocus himself.

“If… you’re not going to be needed here for the next few minutes,” Garak said suddenly. “I was wondering if you might come by my quarters. I have a small favor I’d like to ask.”

Odo looked intrigued. “What sort of favor?”

“Nothing too questionable, I assure you. Now, are you busy, or aren’t you?”

Odo got off the railing. Garak smiled brightly and led him to his quarters. Odo was a good friend, coming along without much questioning, but he was also a good security officer—his natural curiosity would have proved irresistible one way or another.

Garak opened the door. “Well, here we are. Come in, make yourself comfortable.”

Odo immediately looked toward Garak’s travel bag on the floor. “Going somewhere?”

“Well, seeing as neither Gul Dukat nor the Dominion are very fond of me, I can hardly do otherwise,” Garak said. “Now, I don’t expect you to preserve my tailor shop or any of the decorations I’ve accumulated, but there _are_ a few things I’d like to save.”

Odo looked around—there were hardly any decorations in the main room. When Garak went to open his bedroom door, Odo came up close behind him, craning his head to see more. Garak smiled and said, “Computer, raise lights to station standard.”

There, in sharper relief than Garak usually preferred, was his bedroom. A few Cardassian cultural icons adorned the walls, including a poor replica of an Oralian recitation mask he’d made himself. There were a few potted plants scattered on small tables, and one hung from the ceiling in the corner.

“You can snoop around in here as much as you like after I’m gone,” Garak offered, moving to pick up a pot of Melanth. “I trust your ability to follow instructions, Constable. I’ve made up a list of how to care for each of my plants, and attached it to the pots.”

“Your plants?” Odo blinked at the tall straight stems of the Melanth and hesitantly took the pot. “So you really _were_ a gardener on Romulus?”

“Of course I was! You mean you didn’t believe me? After all those stories I told you while you were ill?” Garak made a little tsk, pretending to be offended, before dipping into an ominous, warning tone. “Just be careful to trim off any flowers that form. No matter how _lovely_ they might be, the Melanth blossom produces a pollen quite deadly to Romulans. I’d hate for my plant to be the cause of any accidental deaths.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me why you _need_ a plant like this?” Odo asked. “Planning to poison any Romulans?”

“A man needs his hobbies, Constable. Indulge me.” Garak huffed a small laugh. “Destroy it if you must, in the interests of station security. Although it is quite rare and valuable, it holds no particular… sentimental value to me.”

“But one of these plants _does_ hold sentimental value?” Odo looked back into the bedroom, curiously pacing around to inspect the Hipecat, Invernian herb, Bajoran Spiny Basil, and a few others which would have been quite impressive for Odo to identify on his own.

“It’s not any of those,” Garak said, after giving him a few moments. He withdrew to the little table in the main room and picked up the Favinit plant. It was coming toward another round of fresh flowers, covered in tiny green buds.

“What’s so special about this one?” Odo asked, as he took it and turned the pot in his hands as if looking for clues. “It’s a Vulcan flower, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But the plants of Vulcan are enjoyed by many species. I didn’t get it by killing a Vulcan, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Odo grunted, or laughed, it was hard to tell. “Was it a gift from someone?” His face softened and he looked at Garak knowingly. “Ziyal?”

“No,” Garak said quietly. “It belonged to a very dear friend of mine.” He paused a moment to muster a serene look. “Luckily, it’s fairly easy to take care of. You only need to give it a little water once a week. There are a few other tricks to keep it in peak condition, included in the list.”

Odo held the pot at eye level so he could look at the list. “Seems simple enough.”

“I really _do_ appreciate this, Constable,” Garak said. “Somehow I can’t see Quark being a very diligent gardener, and I doubt Major Kira would appreciate my request. I trust you’ll take good care of this one.”

“I’ll… try to keep the others alive, too,” Odo said, giving in. “But I can’t promise anything.”

“I understand. If the station _is_ taken by the Dominion, I imagine you’ll have plenty to worry about yourself.” Garak raised his eyebrows pointedly at Odo. “I don’t suppose anything is resolved between you and Major Kira.”

Odo clamped his jaw in annoyance. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he growled, then paused and finished much more calmly, “I told her I’m not going to pursue a relationship with her. At least… not now. We both need to focus on our work… we can’t afford that kind of distraction.” He shifted his grip on the plant, moved to put it down, then thought better of it.

“And how did she react?” Garak prompted.

“She… seemed relieved.” Odo turned toward the door to indicate the conversation was over. His speech resumed a clipped pace. “I’ll take this back to my quarters. Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?”

“No,” Garak said. “Thank you. Take care of yourself, Constable.”

Odo hesitated, and nodded once. “You too.”


	15. Personal Space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place during episode 5x26: "A Call to Arms"
> 
> We live for your comments and kudos, so don't be shy!

At last, the time came. The rest of the Starfleet personnel on the station were heading to board the Defiant, and Garak took his chance to blend in with the crowd. In the cramped corridor to the docking bay, Bashir and a few of his nurses were lugging medical supplies.

"Mind if I join you?" Garak asked, falling into step with Bashir.

Bashir jerked, blinking at him. "Garak! I thought—you're coming on the Defiant?"

"Of course! Well, there's still the small technicality of getting Captain Sisko's permission, but I'm sure his Federation principles wouldn't allow him to abandon me to certain death."

Bashir laughed but didn't say anything. He must be deeply preoccupied, Garak thought.

"Is there anything I can do to help? Carry medical supplies for you? Make you a hot cup of Tarkalean tea?"

"I'll be fine. This is almost the last of it," Bashir sighed, and once they were inside the ship, he veered sharply into the infirmary. Garak didn't follow. He slipped to one side, out of the way. Bashir hadn't been avoiding him lately, per se. He'd just been too busy and stressed to notice that Garak had quietly withdrawn. No more badgering from the doctor about how Garak needed to accept his grief, his losses. At first it had seemed like a blessing. Then Garak had taken to glancing wistfully at the infirmary whenever he passed it. Bashir and O'Brien rarely even came into Quark's to play darts lately.

"Garak? What're you doin' here?" Chief O'Brien called, halting so suddenly that the ensign behind him bumped into his back.

"Waiting to talk to Captain Sisko, of course," Garak said cheerfully.

"About what?" Ah, that suspicious look. The Chief had many reasons not to trust him.

"I'd like to offer him my expertise."

O'Brien chewed on that a moment. "Well, he's not coming this way. Come on, you can wait for him in the transporter room."

...

The first part of the day was the most awkward; they hadn't yet cleared the battle zone, and everyone was still settling in for the forty-eight hour trip to rendezvous with the Federation task force. Garak tried to keep out of the way, nestled into a corner of the mess hall with his bag as people grabbed meals or snacks on their way to their duties—or more likely, to ask about their duties. Bits of speculation drifted to him but nothing of too much importance. Finally, Bashir came in with Lieutenant Dax and they both got hot beverages from the replicator. Garak watched them split off, Dax coming toward him while Bashir headed for another table. But then Bashir did a double take and changed course.

"Hello, Lieutenant," Garak said, startled at her sudden approach. "Is everything alright?"

"That's a loaded question," Dax said, grinning as she sat down across from him. "But all things considered, yes. Have you heard what your room assignment is yet?"

"No." Garak glanced questioningly at Bashir, who had just slipped into a chair on his left. A complicated mixture of anxiety and anticipation rose in his stomach. "Ah, let me guess. I'll be staying with Doctor Bashir, because no one else on the ship would dare sleep in my presence."

Bashir shook his head. "Chief O'Brien and I are assigned together already."

"Of course," Garak said, turning to Dax. "So, who is it?"

Dax stuck out her hand with a smirk. "Pleased to meet you, Mister Garak. I'm Dax, your new roommate."

Garak blinked and shook her hand briefly, laughing a little. "Well, I suppose this _is_ the most logical arrangement. Considering the rumors I've heard, you may be one of the most capable warriors on this ship."

"Flattery's not such a bad way to start off," said Dax smoothly. "I'm sure we'll get along just fine."

Bashir was watching them with an odd little smile that he was only half-trying to hide behind a mug of Tarkalean Tea. "If we can't re-take the station quickly, correct rooming assignments might make all the difference in crew morale. Otherwise we might do the Dominion's job for them."

"Well, if nothing else, at least we won't be bored." Dax arched her eyebrows as she tried to read her data pad and sip her drink at the same time.

Bashir grimaced comically. "I'll be treating casualties for the next few hours at least, and I'm sure this is only the beginning."

"I'm confident that you and your fellow medical professionals have things well in hand," Garak butted in, "but… considering that I don't have an official position among the crew, I'm certainly at your disposal, Doctor. Errands to run, hot drinks to fetch, disgruntled patients to disarm—whatever it is you need, I'd be _more_ than happy for something to do."

"Well, _thank_ you, Garak." Bashir gave him a brief nod and grin. "I like my early-morning coffee with two measures of kava and a teaspoon of sugar. Make sure it's filled up to exactly a centimeter from the top of the mug."

"I didn't think you drank coffee," Garak said, glancing at Bashir suspiciously. "But I suppose we don't usually meet for breakfast."

"That's exactly how Kira takes her coffee," Dax observed.

"I know. And I'm joking, Garak." Bashir rolled his eyes and clapped Garak on the back, almost like he did with Chief O'Brien. "You don't need to fetch me my drinks. It takes two seconds for me to order from the replicator—but I do appreciate the sentiment."

"Any time," Garak nodded back, a bit put out by Bashir's distracted attitude. Normally Bashir noticed his body language, and reacted in one way or another—even if that reaction was to deliberately ignore it. But he could clearly see that Bashir was somehow oblivious to the tone of his voice, the precise arrangement of his features that were meant to tell him _I've been missing you, Doctor, and I'm looking forward to seeing more of you._

Ah well. There would be time—or there wouldn't. There was no use fretting.

Bashir finished his drink quickly. "I'd better head back. I'll let you two get acquainted."

As he walked away, Dax shook her head a little and spoke to Garak in a confidential tone. "Don't take it personally. He's stressed. Unfortunately, I've got to get back to work too." She winked at him and got up to leave. "See you later."

Garak watched her go, feeling off-balance. Between Bashir's obliviousness and her overly familiar approach, he was starting to feel the same old sense of isolation. There was no one here to truly connect with. But then he thought of Odo, back on the station, having to deal with Dukat. And Ziyal, surrounded by a sea of perfect strangers once again. Perhaps things weren't so bad for him, all things considered. After all, on a ship this small, people couldn't help but bump into one another.

...

When Bashir returned to the infirmary, the nurses were still working through the casualties from earlier that day: some Federation crewmembers that had been caught in explosions when the station's shields went down, and a handful of Klingons who had been transported to his medical bay from their ships while their comrades continued to push back the Dominion fleet. He joined the nurses, trying to occupy his overactive mind by focusing fully on his patients. But he couldn't help himself—his thoughts were in overdrive, dwelling on the Dominion, trying to find a quick and easy fix to the war.

Earlier that day, he had already calculated roughly how many people were likely to die on the station if Captain Sisko didn't surrender it to Dukat before real damage was done. He'd taken all the basics into account: the station's structure; the location of its life-support and weapons systems, and the most likely areas to be targeted; the time it would take his teams to reach victims in certain sections if the lifts were down or the transporters were offline; the maximum amount of harm Dukat might allow to be dealt to the station before forcibly boarding it and taking over from the inside out; the likely number of Jem'Hadar soldiers in each of the ships in each of the convoys they'd seen gathering in Cardassian space.

The only thing that had taken the edge off Bashir's dread at these prospects was when the order came for all Bajoran residents to evacuate. But by then, he was already beginning to feel premonitions of how much death he would soon be witness to. There had to be some logical way to end this before it started.

"Julian?"

Jadzia's voice broke into his concentration, and he looked up from the computer analysis he was working on. Finding the antidote to the biogenic compound from Empok Nor had been a stroke of good luck, but there were still details of its composition that he wanted to hammer out, especially in relation to its exact affect on Cardassians. It was his pet project, but he rationalized it by telling himself that the more they knew about what the Central Command was capable of, the better prepared they would be if their enemies resorted to such tactics. Perhaps the compound could also reveal a way to disarm the Jem'Hadar non-violently. He could always hope.

"I thought you could use a break," Jadzia was saying. "Want to grab a bite to eat?"

"Oh, I haven't been working that long," Bashir said dismissively, barely looking at her.

"Julian, it's past nineteen-hundred hours already."

Bashir glanced at the clock, startled. "So it is." He rubbed at his eyes with one hand. "Time does fly when you're enjoying yourself," he remarked, only half-sarcastically.

"Come on." Jadzia nearly yanked him up by his arm and he stumbled after her—she always startled him with how strong she was. "Let's walk. I was actually wondering if you could give me any tips about Garak."

"What do you mean?" Bashir rubbed his arm where she'd gripped it and followed her down the hall. With effort, he pulled his mind away from its puzzles and focused on Jadzia's face.

"You know," she said. "Are there any quirks I should know about? Snoring, sleepwalking, pet peeves, topics to avoid? The basics of getting along with him as well as _you_ do?"

"Why would I know all of that?" Bashir scoffed, amused. "It's not as if _we've_ ever shared a room before."

"You must have sometime—on a runabout, maybe, or... I know, when you were at the Jem'Hadar prison compound! You were in the same barracks, weren't you?"

"Well, there was that, but none of us got much sleep after him and Worf arrived." Bashir sighed, thinking back. "If I'd had my way, Garak would have, but he was too busy working on our escape and dealing with his claustrophobia."

"Claustrophobia?" Dax looked surprised. "Somehow I never would have expected a former spy to have a problem like that."

"Well, don't bring it up if you can help it," Bashir said in a hushed tone. "I don't think he likes to talk about it, and I don't think he likes me telling people about it either."

"He's gonna have a rough time on this ship." Jadzia said, exhaling slowly with eyebrows raised. "Does he get grumpy when he's feeling claustrophobic? Should I sleep with a phaser under my pillow?"

"I think you're misinterpreting his comment," Bashir laughed under his breath. "About you being a capable warrior. Garak knows he wouldn't be trusted as a roommate for just anyone, but he's not looking for a fight… he was only commenting as a way of…." Bashir paused to think of how to phrase this. Explaining Garak to other people could be so difficult.

"I didn't think he was looking for a fight," Jadzia shrugged. "He came off as more sullen and defensive than anything else."

"Really? That's not what he was aiming for, either," said Bashir. "If I'd been paying more attention…." He sighed, giving up. There was no way to explain it without making Garak sound like someone obsessed with psychological power play. Which, in a way, he was, but that was too simplistic. "Well, it doesn't really matter. Just don't take his comments too personally—he likes to show that he sees past the pleasantries of any situation. And he likes to keep people guessing."

"Well, as long as he doesn't take too much offense when people guess wrong."

"Even if he seems like he does, he's probably just trying to test your reaction. Just take it as his way of getting to know you. Anyway, it's probably no use asking him personal questions. If you want to learn anything about him, you're better off talking about your own interests and letting him pick them apart… unless you enjoy going around in circles for hours until you forgot what you were curious about in the first place." Bashir laughed at himself and Jadzia laughed with him.

"I'll take that as a challenge."

"Well, if you get anything new out of him, I'll be _very_ impressed." They had reached the mess hall now, and Bashir deliberated for a moment before ordering a pot pie.

"How did he cope with his claustrophobia?" Jadzia asked. "When you were trying to escape?"

"I'm not sure." Bashir sat down with his food, remembering with an odd pang the way Garak had clung to his hand so desperately… the way he'd apologized for failing them. Physical contact was obviously something that had steadied Garak in that moment, but there was no use telling Jadzia that—somehow, he doubted Garak would appreciate her trying to hug him at the first sign of anxiety, no matter how perfect she was. "Talking to him seems to help. Distraction."

"About what?"

"Anything." Bashir shrugged. "I'm sure he'll be fine. He was only suffering from it so badly because he was in a dark, hot crawlspace, and we had to keep closing it whenever the guards got too close. Apparently the panel he was working on also had some exposed circuits, and he kept getting shocked."

Jadzia made a face. "That's enough to give _anyone_ a panic attack."

"Exactly. Still… it's not a bad idea to give him some distraction before it gets to that point. We might be on this ship for a very long time." Bashir sighed and looked across the mess hall, stared out the window at the endless blackness of space. For a long time, he'd thought he could serve the world best by being a doctor… giving individual care and saving lives. But wasn't an ounce of prevention worth a pound of cure? Wouldn't avoiding war be a surer way to help people? But even if he thought of an answer… what could he do by himself? He was only a doctor… not a captain, not an admiral. He wasn't one of the powers in this fight.

When he turned back to his food, Jadzia was smiling at him as if she'd caught him mooning over another dabo girl.

"What?" Bashir asked.

"Nothing," she said innocently. "Are you going to eat that thing, or just keep hovering your fork over it until it surrenders?"

Bashir looked down at his pot pie and realized he hadn't even cut it open yet.

"Eat your dinner, Julian," Jadzia commanded in a motherly tone. "And after that it's time for bed."

Bashir gave her a warning look and dug into his pot pie with hasty movements, only to have his tongue burned because the inside—as always—was too hot.

...

That night, Garak and Dax went to their sorry closet-sized excuse for a room, which contained bunks on one side and a few small storage compartments on the other. But there was no use complaining, Garak knew. All the rooms on the Defiant were just as pitiful.

"Alright. Top or bottom?" Dax asked, once they'd both used the tiny adjacent changing room to put on their night clothes. Garak's were cut similarly to the suits he wore every day, but made of more flexible fabric. Regrettably, the cloth was also thinner, which meant he would probably be a bit cold all night long. Dax wore a sleeveless shirt and fitted shorts. Garak had never gotten quite this close a look at her spots before. Fascinating people, Trill.

"Hmm." Garak eyed the bunks and glanced at the ceiling. "I'll take the bottom one, if you don't mind."

"Not at all." Dax hoisted herself up onto the top bunk and settled in, watching as he pulled open the storage compartments one by one. "Lose something?" she asked.

"Oh, just checking to make sure there's not a spare blanket somewhere," Garak muttered half to himself."

"Try the compartment under your bunk," Dax suggested.

Indeed, when Garak inspected the side of his bunk, there was a handle-less drawer which opened with a press and contained three spare blankets. He pulled out two and spread them over the drab mattress before settling in under them, lying on his side so he could face the opposite wall instead of the bottom of Dax's bunk which was so suffocating overhead.

"Lights out?" Dax prompted.

"Yes, thank you."

A small panel on the wall remained aglow once the rest of the lights had dimmed. Garak's eyes adjusted all too quickly and within a few minutes he could see the dimensions of the room quite clearly. He traced the lines between each cupboard in the wall. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was in his bedroom back on Deep Space Nine. His chest felt tight—he tried rolling onto his back, but it didn't help. He tried lifting his arms above his head so the air could flow more freely, but this only made the tight feeling worse.

"You know," Dax's voice shot out of the darkness, startling him. "I've slept in a lot of beds over the years, and these aren't so bad, but they can definitely take some getting used to. I remember when I first started at the Academy; I couldn't _stand_ the dormitory mattresses. Do Cardassians prefer firmer beds or do you like it a little more luxurious?"

"It varies," Garak said, frowning at the wall. "I've known some Cardassians who would be dissatisfied with a mattress three times softer than this. Others could sleep on bare rock."

"I guess that just goes to show that you can't generalize," Dax said breezily. "Personally, I'm always glad to learn how my first impressions are wrong. Even if a person seems perfect at first, that's usually all the more reason not to trust them. Of course, people get the wrong idea about me all the time. Well, maybe it's not exactly _wrong_ , but it's not accurate. I'm sure you've experienced the same thing. It's bound to happen when you have two very different cultures or people meeting for the first time."

"You're obviously a very dedicated observer of alien behavior, Lieutenant," Garak sighed. "But may I ask why you're telling me all this _now_ , instead of sleeping?"

"Well. We don't have to talk if you don't want to," Dax said, a shrug in her voice. "Julian told me you have claustrophobia and I thought it might help if I distracted you."

"He did, did he?" Garak took a deep breath to calm his stung pride and affect a careless tone. "I suppose it's just as well that you know, but I wish he'd consulted me first."

"That's Julian for you," Dax laughed. "He'll choose a person's health above their wishes as much as he possibly can. It's an important quality in a doctor. And sometimes it serves him well as a friend, too. He's not afraid to talk some sense into people…. that's at least one thing we have in common. You spend a lot of time with Julian."

"Oh, not that much," Garak muttered, still resentful at her knowledge of him. "We've shared some meals, discussed novels, that sort of thing."

"What kind of novels?"

"Classics from Earth and Cardassia."

"The Never-Ending Sacrifice?"

Garak blinked. "So you've heard of that one, at least."

"I like to learn a few well-known titles from any culture I encounter," Dax said. "It makes it easier to start conversations. What did Julian think of it?"

"Oh… I'm almost certain he hated it," Garak said bluntly, and Dax giggled a little.

"Did he actually say that?"

"Oh no, he was much too polite, of course."

"Of course." There was a smile in Dax's voice. "And I bet he even agreed to read another one."

"Well, why wouldn't he?" Garak said. "Despite what some _humans_ will tell you, not all Cardassian literature is the same."

"And I'm sure he realized that. Still, some people get turned off by one dish on the menu and won't try other Klingon food no matter how dead it is."

Garak exhaled in a short, impatient laugh. "I hope you're not comparing Cardassian literature to gagh, Lieutenant."

"I happen to think gagh is alright. Have you even tried it?"

"No, and I don't intend to."

"Well, don't worry. I'm not offended," Dax said. "Even most Klingons don't like the taste—it's just the sensation. But Julian actually really _likes_ racht! Can you believe that?"

"I'm afraid I've never heard of racht, but I can only guess it's something just as repulsive as gagh."

"Good guess. Actually, most would say it's worse. The worms are bigger."

Despite his grumpiness and claustrophobia, Garak almost laughed. "And here I thought he was joking when he suggested we go to the Klingon restaurant for lunch."

"Julian's full of surprises, isn't he?"

"How else has he surprised you?" Garak asked, genuinely curious now.

"Oh, well, you know. When we all started out our assignments on Deep Space Nine, he was such a… he was so overconfident and," Dax laughed, "I mean, he's obviously brilliant, but he was _so_ naïve! I thought he had the worst superiority complex, like when a five year old thinks they know _everything_ just because they can count to a hundred. He came off as a little sheltered, you know. No real-life experience, just book learning, and I have to admit, I thought he was going to be a thorn in everyone's side and Benjamin would have to request a reassignment for him."

Garak did laugh now, but softly, fondly. "Yes, he was certainly brash and arrogant, back then. But it… seems to have endeared him to some people."

"He's an idealist," Dax said. "All the best people are, and sometimes the worst people. I guess in a way, his enthusiasm bothers people because it frightens them. He was always so confident that he could do anything he set his mind to. I don't think he's quite that overzealous anymore."

"He certainly has come a long way," Garak murmured thoughtfully. He'd seen Bashir grow through that entire process, these past five years. He'd been right there the entire time, and sometimes even fooled himself into thinking he knew Bashir better than anyone else. But he didn't resent Dax's accurate reminiscence. It only served to remind him how fortunate he'd been to know the man.

"Of course, we all have a little different perspective now that we know about his genetic enhancements," Dax admitted. "It makes me wonder how much of his old personality was an act."

"Yes, it does raise some questions," Garak agreed. "What do you think?"

"I think some of it might have been exaggerated, but it was still Julian. He's just grown up a lot between now and then. It's a good thing, too, because if the secret had gotten out back then, before he proved how valuable his skills are, I think it would have been much harder for him to get away with it. He wouldn't have had so many powerful people on his side."

"Isn't there an old Earth saying?" Garak asked. "It's not what you know…"

"It's who you know. Yeah," Dax sighed. "Sometimes that's true." She paused a moment, and laughed suddenly. "You know, he used to ask me out almost every day. He was so determined to start a relationship with me, no matter how many times I turned him down. Quark told me later that he'd come in there and order a synth ale five or six times a week and cry about how I'd turned him down again. I felt bad—he's definitely cute, with those gorgeous brown eyes, but I just wasn't interested."

"That's a shame. I can't imagine why you wouldn't want him," Garak sighed half to himself. "Even as immature as he was back then."

"What do you mean by that?" Dax squirmed around on the top bunk until her head was hanging over the side, all her hair falling to the left of her face. Garak blinked up at her amazed grin, and her voice took on a conspiratorial tone. "Are you saying _you're_ attracted to Julian?"

Garak laughed a bit loudly to cover his dismay. "Oh, Lieutenant. Just because I can see that he might be appealing to someone like you, doesn't mean I have any interest in the way you're talking about."

"Are you sure about that?" Dax coaxed. "After all, you have saved each other's lives more than once. That's got to count for something."

"Do you have a romantic attachment to everyone who's saved _your_ life?"

Dax paused for a moment. "I guess not. I'd have to think about it. There are a lot of lives to go through."

"Well, I can assure you, my feelings of gratitude have nothing to do with Doctor Bashir's supposedly gorgeous brown eyes."

Dax laughed, but then seemed to sober. "What about Ziyal?"

"What about her?"

Dax's voice went smooth with suggestion. "Well, it's no secret that she likes you, Garak. And I know you two spend time in the holosuites."

"So do Doctor Bashir and Chief O'Brien. I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"Let me be a little clearer, then. Have you been physically intimate with her? Or is that still too vague?" Dax said it all casually enough, but Garak thought what little he could see of her expression had changed. If nothing else, he could hear the tension underlying her friendly affectation. After all, he often approached confrontations in the same way.

"Not to be rude, Lieutenant, but do you ask _everyone_ you bunk with about these kinds of personal details?"

Dax took a deep breath. "Well, Kira and I talk. Ziyal _is_ young and inexperienced, after all, and you're…."

"Old?"

"Well, I was going to say _more experienced_ ," Dax said. "To put it bluntly, Kira thinks you've been taking advantage of Ziyal's loneliness, and she's too blinded by her infatuation with you to realize that you don't actually love her back. Personally, I would like to believe you care about her more then just for the sex, but I really don't know you well enough to be sure."

Garak took a deep breath, surprised at how disgusted and dismayed he felt at finally hearing these rumors he had always known would arise. "What does Ziyal say about that?"

"She denies all of it, of course. Kira's tried to get the truth out of her multiple times, but Ziyal just said she's an adult and she understands what she's getting into. But that doesn't prove anything to Kira."

"No, I don't suppose it does."

"I don't think it should, either. She's an impressionable young woman, and you're too clever for your own good. I also can't imagine you took a vow of celibacy when you were exiled. A girl like Ziyal is probably irresistible. Especially in a station full of Bajorans, who aren't likely to want to go to bed with you."

"Charming," Garak said dryly. "If this is your usual practice when assigned a new bunk mate, it's no wonder you're so popular."

"I'm just being realistic!" Dax said, putting both her hands up by her face. "How often would a Cardassian exile really get to have sex unless he paid someone or went to a holosuite? No matter what Quark says, a hologram isn't like the real thing. But a young half-Cardassian girl like Ziyal, with a neglectful father, who's lived most of her life in a hostile environment? She'd be perfect for you because she might not know the difference between regular attention and actual love! Why _wouldn't_ you take advantage of her, especially if her father doesn't care? Your bases are covered—she likes you, and she's an adult, so no one can do anything about it unless she decides to turn against you. But she won't, because you're the only intimate relationship she knows."

"Well," Garak said tersely, when he'd waited a space to make sure she was finished. "I can see you've already come to your own conclusions about this. And you've no doubt heard from Doctor Bashir that I'm an excellent liar as well. At this point, I'm not sure anything I say would convince you!"

"Don't give up on me yet," Dax said, and he could have sworn she rolled her eyes at him.

Garak went on as if she hadn't spoken. "I suppose a Trill _would_ assume that every other species is just as sexually driven and indiscriminate of age differences."

Dax laughed. "Is that supposed to be an insult?"

"Obviously, nearly every one of the countless aliens you've no doubt bedded in your long string of lives was much too young for you!" Garak said in a lazy sing-song. "I'm sure the gap of wisdom and experience was _far_ beyond even that which exists between me and Ziyal. So forgive me if I don't give your judgment of me much weight. Cardassian males aren't sexually reserved by any means, but self-mastery is near the very peak of our values."

"Fair enough… I suppose," Dax said grudgingly. "But we're getting off track. You're supposed to be telling me why I should believe you _aren't_ taking advantage of Ziyal."

"As you said, she is young. What if I'm not interested in the inexperienced? What if I only enjoy her company, so I let her have her romantic fantasies because they keep her close to me?"

"You're saying you're not sexually interested in her at all?"

"Well, if we're going to get technical," Garak huffed, "I'm sexually interested in lots of people, but acting on that interest is rarely worth the effort and danger involved. Ziyal is undoubtedly beautiful, but I've never seen her as a potential partner in any respect."

"That's a vague statement," Dax said. "Not a partner, maybe, but she could still be a plaything."

Garak sighed, meeting her eyes in the dim light. There was no way to shrug this off without incriminating either himself or Ziyal. "Whatever else I might be, Lieutenant, I assure you that I am not the type to force myself upon an unwilling partner. Ziyal is… very fond of me, for reasons I'm not sure I fully understand, but she's a good friend. For the moment, that's all we are, however much she might wish I felt differently. She knows I don't want that sort of relationship with her."

"Okay," Dax said skeptically. "The only other Cardassian on the station is a young, beautiful, intelligent female, and you just want to be friends? Somehow I find that a little hard to believe. If Dukat doesn't care anymore, there'd be no danger in pursuing her. Unless you're counting Kira."

"Major Kira isn't very fond of me already," Garak admitted. "But that's not why I'm holding back."

"Maybe you were _going_ to use her against Dukat somehow, but now that he's not interested, you're not interested either? Or you're just hanging on to her because no one else on the station will have you?"

Garak's voice turned a little sharp. "Are you suggesting Ziyal is only worth as much as her sexual allure or her relation to her father?"

"No, not at all," Dax said. "I just wasn't sure if—"

"Not every Cardassian is like Gul Dukat, Lieutenant," Garak said, not bothering to cover his annoyance. "And Ziyal is no fool. She knows better than to get involved with someone unless they truly return her feelings. Say whatever you like about me, think whatever is easiest for you to believe. But give Ziyal a little credit. She may be naïve. She is not, however, as passive and easy to manipulate as _you_ seem to think."

"Well." Dax paused a moment, absorbing what he'd said. "I guess I had this all wrong. But you said she's a good friend… so you obviously have feelings for her of some kind."

"I never said I didn't," Garak said quietly.

"Just not sexual ones?"

"I've never exactly had my pick of sexual partners," Garak said in a resigned tone of voice. "And that's certainly not the hardest loss to cope with in my exile." He paused, hardly believing how he was casually baring his soul here, walking right into the trap she'd set for him. "No, the thing I long for most is having someone to share some time and good conversation with. A friend. Someone who genuinely enjoys my company." He exhaled a little self-mocking laugh. "And that's why I hadn't confronted Ziyal about her feelings until recently. She is… smitten, and she deserves someone who will love her back with that same kind of devotion. Someone who will hold nothing back from her."

"A touching speech," Dax said. Normally, it would have seemed sarcastic, but there was something open-ended about it, as if she almost believed him. "So you like her, but not nearly as much as she likes you."

"I have no fantasies of building a life with her."

"I see." Dax didn't say anything for the next minute, but she didn't pull her head back up onto her pillow either. Garak took slow calming breaths.

"Lieutenant?"

"Hmm?"

"If this conversation is over, I'd like to get some sleep, and knowing you're staring at me might make that a little difficult."

"Sorry," Dax said, but she didn't move. "You really do care about her, don't you?"

Garak sighed, long and softly. "A shocking thought, I know." Somehow, Dax had steered this conversation exactly where he never expected it to go. She had created a scenario in which telling the truth was ultimately more attractive than keeping secrets—the key to any good interrogation.

"Is there anyone you've ever wanted to spend the rest of your life with?" Dax asked, a trace of wistfulness in her voice. Garak wondered if she was thinking about her Klingon lover.

"I think that's quite enough gossip for one night, Lieutenant," Garak said chidingly. "If I told you any more now, you'd have nothing left to distract me with for the rest of the trip!"

"You're right." Dax's head withdrew from Garak's sight and he heard her roll over above him. "We can talk about you and Julian later. Goodnight, Garak."

Garak hoped he was imagining the insinuations in her voice.

"Goodnight, Lieutenant," he replied politely.

"And you can call me Dax."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Garak closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He'd have to watch himself around her. People sometimes described her personality as disarming, but he'd never expected it to be such a literal description of her ability to put someone off guard, or at least trap them into cooperation.

Still, he did feel better now. The distraction had worked, and for the moment, Garak realized he was actually relieved to have spoken the truth. And what was more, it seems she had actually believed him.


	16. Severe Crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in between episode 5x26 "A Call to Arms" and 6x1 "A Time to Stand"
> 
> Fun Fact: Nurse Tagana is a canon character!
> 
> Reviews give me motivation to keep coming back to this fic in the midst of a busy life and a multitude of other writing projects!

            Two and a half months since they’d left Deep Space Nine. Nearly that long since they’d met up with the rest of the Federation fleets and begun attacking Dominion ships. Doctor Bashir woke up for his sick bay shift to find Miles snoring soundly in the bottom bunk after a long day repairing the damaged cloaking systems. They were on the retreat again. Bashir felt a little dizzy getting down from the bunk, his body still trying to recover from the thirty six hours plus he’d been awake, beaming to help wounded on other ships who were even harder hit. Seven hours of sleep couldn’t make up for that kind of stress right away, but he did some stretches and felt a little better.

            Two and a half months, and for the first time during those two and a half months, Bashir considered just how marvelous it would be to have absolutely nothing to do. He’d had his fingers in too many pies, as Miles put it, trying to put his brain to use with repairs, strategy, medical analysis, anything that might help them win. The down time that came after a retreat was always more of a curse than a blessing, making Bashir restless unless he kept as busy as possible. But today he was just too tired, and curling up with a good book seemed like the thing to do, as soon as he had checked to make sure there were no crewmembers needing immediate medical assistance.

            Occasionally Garak, who had been given the dubious title of “tactical navigator”, had taken it upon himself to bring Bashir a little something—tea or a scone or some other baked good—and ask the nurses to see that he got it. Oddly, Garak seemed secretly peeved each time Bashir gave him a proper thank-you, so the doctor decided to just let it be and appreciate it silently.

            Yes, Bashir thought as he headed to the mess hall. Underpinning all his various projects and duties, there was Garak—more precisely, keeping Garak from driving the rest of the crew up the wall with his “conversational talents” when he wasn’t fully occupied with star-charts, transmission systems, and encryption codes.

...

            The first incident that really caught his attention had come near the end of the first month; it had involved Ensign Sylvan and the problem of professional competition.

            “Ensign Silvan to Doctor Bashir,” came the call over the comm. line. “We have a situation in the science lab.”

            Bashir rushed down the corridor with his med kit—the science lab was just three doors down—only to find Ensign Silvan at her usual panel, with Garak standing over her. Garak straightened when Bashir walked in and batted his eyes all too innocently.

            “Ah, Doctor, I can explain.”

            “ _I’m_ going to do the explaining!” Silvan snapped, not at all her usual agreeable self. In fact, she looked like she might burst into angry tears at any minute, but was keeping herself as professional as she could manage. “Doctor Bashir, your friend Garak is working past his shift and is interfering with my concentration. I think he might be grumpy from overworking himself.”

            “Alright,” Bashir said, thinking to himself that this whole situation was already a bit suspicious. “How exactly is he interfering with your concentration?” He glanced at Garak with the tiniest shaking of his head to let him know that Ensign Silvan was to speak first.

            “He’s criticizing everything I do,” Silvan said bluntly. “And I mean everything.”

            “Well that’s hardly fair, Ensign,” Garak protested. “I commended you on your observation of the increased Dominion presence along the Cardassian border.”

            “Sarcastically! I know I was stating the obvious—I was just trying to make small talk. You didn’t have to turn it into an excuse to insult me.”

            Garak glanced wide-eyed between Bashir and Silvan, as if to say _do you see what I’ve been dealing with?_

            “What would you like me to do, Ensign?” Bashir said, suppressing a sigh.

            “Order him to go take a nap?” Silvan suggested morosely, determinedly keeping her eyes on Bashir and never once glancing at Garak. “I can’t work when he’s standing over me telling me how every mark I make on the tactical map is ‘imprecise’ or ‘technically inaccurate.’”

            “I see. Come on, Garak. Your shift’s over.” Bashir motioned. Garak came toward his outstretched arm, his default smile shifting toward the sour end of the spectrum.

            Once they were out of the room, Garak said, “I should inform you that if you do order me to take a nap, I will be physically incapable of obeying.”

          “I’m not going to order you to do anything, Garak. I might plead with you to go a little easier on the ensigns.” Garak made a little amused “aha” at that, and Bashir went on. “Just out of curiosity, why didn’t you leave the lab after your shift?”

            “I find that if I’m left unoccupied, I tend to become a bit of a nuisance to myself.”

            “Really?” Bashir smirked. “You don’t say?”

            “And I’ve run out of sewing. I’m afraid Lieutenant Dax is too busy to keep me company at the moment, so I decided I may as well act as a second pair of eyes for Ensign Silvan. I’ve noticed most humans tend to get sloppy when faced with tedious work like mapping and simulating the battle movements of enemy ships.” Garak was staring straight ahead, not meeting his eyes except for a few brief glances.

            “I see. Are you sure Ensign Silvan isn’t right about you being grumpy from overworking yourself?” Bashir teased.

            “Oh, Doctor,” Garak sighed wryly. “You’re hardly one to talk.”

On impulse, Bashir put a hand on Garak’s shoulder and was shocked to feel the muscle spasm. “A bit jumpy? Is that a sign of a guilty conscience? Garak, that’s not like you.”

            “Sometimes, Doctor,” Garak laughed, “I severely misjudge how well you know me. What would I have to feel guilty about?”

            “You’re right,” Bashir shrugged, playing it sly. “Surely you would never purposely annoy Ensign Silvan. Although I wonder why she thought to call _me_ instead of someone else.”

            “Your guess is as good as mine,” said Garak.

            “As long as you’re sure you’re actually fine,” Bashir said, suddenly all seriousness. Garak stared into his eyes for a record three seconds, a show of false openness. “You will tell me if there’s anything I can help you with, won’t you, Garak? Before taking your discomfort out on poor unsuspecting ensigns?”

Bashir let his hand drop from Garak’s shoulder and saw him visibly relax.

            “Of course, Doctor,” Garak replied in an unconcerned tone and smiled, staring straight ahead.

...

            Garak almost never spoke about his claustrophobia to Bashir, or of any other ailment apart from asking for an occasional refill of headache medication. Bashir only got tiny noncommittal updates from Dax when they passed each other in the halls or met at the replicator. And Garak’s seemingly unconscious antagonism continued. Once when Bashir was grabbing dinner a bit later than usual, he walked in on a heated discussion between Ensign Connor and Garak, who seemed to have insulted his mother’s cooking.

            “I never said anything derogatory,” Garak was saying, his head reared back defensively, hands spread. “You were the one who said today’s potato soup reminded you of home— _I_ merely agreed that nostalgia can be a strong influence on a person’s taste! But you obviously think badly of her cooking if you’re projecting that kind of criticism onto the simple comment I made.”

            “It’s your tone of voice!” Connor cried. “You pretended to love it for ten minutes and then you turned it around so that you were really comparing it to slug-o-cola!”

            “Ensign!” Garak gasped. “I had no idea you were so prejudiced against Ferengi.”

            “Can’t you do something about him?” Ensign Connor yowled at Bashir, before taking his tray to the opposite side of the mess hall.

            Bashir had then been obliged to sit next to Garak for the remainder of the meal and keep him occupied with various tidbits of news. In between, he let Garak regale him with descriptions of all the best Cardassian food that no one had ever programmed into Federation replicators.

            And so it had gone on like that. Every few days at most—sometimes more than once a day—Bashir would get calls from desperate officers, until he began to expect Garak emergencies more often than medical ones. There was no use pointing out that Garak was annoying the rest of the crew.

            “But Doctor, _everyone_ on the ship is tense. You said so yourself! I’m being perfectly pleasant, all things considered.”

            And perhaps he was. Perhaps other people simply didn’t understand that when Garak twisted their words (or his own) to make the conversation more interesting, he was only being himself and didn’t necessarily mean any harm by it. Bashir could only hope that today, the crew's first day of rest after a particularly grueling battle, would be different.

            “Sisko to Doctor Bashir. I need you in the mess hall right away.”

            Stopping at sick bay to grab a med kit, Bashir dashed down the corridors and arrived to see everything as it should be, except that Garak was being shielded from a very angry Ensign Tal’paz by Sisko and Dax. Bashir stopped to observe the ruckus.

            “I say we throw that Cardassian off the ship!” Tal’paz snarled. “He just stands around all day making things harder for the rest of us! Why can’t you confine him to quarters at _least?_ He’s useless and dangerous and—!”

            “Ensign!” Dax barked. “That’s enough.”

            “I agree,” Sisko said calmly. “We’re going to find a diplomatic solution to this. Doctor Bashir—why don’t you take Mister Garak to the infirmary and have him run maintenance tests on the equipment?”

            “I think you should let him hit me, Captain,” Garak was saying in his oh-so-reasonable voice, smiling indulgently at their backs. “He obviously needs to release some pent-up emotion. It’s not good to let that fester. Just ask Doctor Bashir.”

            “What’s going on here?” Bashir finally asked, walking up behind the enraged ensign and putting a hand on his shoulder. Tal’paz shrugged him off.

            “This—this—” Tal’paz barely swallowed some slur, no doubt held back by the disapproving looks of both Sisko and Dax. “He—!” Apparently whatever Garak had done was too horrible for words.

            “Easy, Ensign,” Dax coaxed. “Start from the beginning. You were talking to Ensign Mendelman.”

            “Yes! We were having a private conversation before _he_ butted in!”

            “What exactly did he say?”

            “If I may, Lieutenant,” said Garak. “I remember the entire conversation quite clearly.”

            “Ensign Tal’paz first,” Sisko commanded.

            The ensign took a deep breath through his nose, bright blue nostrils flaring, jaw jutted out resentfully. “I was talking to Ensign Mendelman… we were just chatting about our home planets. I said something like… you get to miss those little comforts you took for granted… like being able to take a stroll outside, take your latest crush out to dinner, that kind of thing. We were just reminiscing.”

            “Pursuing relationships was high on that list,” Garak interrupted, “and I simply said ‘Ah yes, in times of war even a superficial attraction can be nearly transformative, making the disreputable into veritable saints.’ Or something along those lines. Really, I was just joining in for a little chat—complimenting Ensign Tal’paz on his opportunistic insight.”

            Bashir held in a sigh.

            “You were turning her against me, you little Sahhak!” Tal’paz muttered. “Making out like I’m some kind of… like I was harassing her or something! We were just talking. He had no right to come in and make those kinds of snide remarks!”

            “Snide?” Garak laughed. “It’s not my fault you can’t recognize a compliment when you hear one. Besides, I’m sure Doctor Bashir could tell you that you and Ensign Mendelman were sadly never meant to be.”

            “What?! Doctor? What’s he talking about?” Tal’paz spluttered. “If you and Ensign Mendelman are involved, I didn’t mean to—”

            “We’re not,” Bashir interrupted, and muttered uncomfortably. “I think he was more referring to the uh… corrosive nature of Bolian bodily fluids.”

            “I-I wasn’t looking for—I wasn’t—!” Tal’paz continued to fumble. “I wouldn’t do something so stupid! It’s none of his business anyway!”

            “Doctor Bashir,” Sisko said, “Why don’t you take Mister Garak aside and question him separately? I have a feeling it will save time.”

            “Yes, Captain,” Bashir said sullenly. “Come on Garak.” He jerked his head with a tight look that he hoped Garak would recognize as one which would broach no argument and appreciate no cleverness. Garak raised his eyebrows— _really, Doctor, you know me better than that_ —but followed him without complaint, to the other side of the mess hall.

            “Alright, I’m listening,” Bashir said quietly once they were out of earshot. “Explain yourself.”

            Garak paused a moment and Bashir was reminded forcefully of the little rests Garak sometimes took just before he was about to tell a particularly absurd lie.

            “It was obvious to me that Ensign Tal’paz was trying to seduce Ensign Mendelman, appealing to her most vulnerable feelings of homesickness,” Garak said casually. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have interfered, but you know me, Doctor… I hate to let the blind and innocent be manipulated so unquestioningly.”

Bashir had to suppress the urge to laugh at that. Garak pretended not to notice.

“When Ensign Tal’paz told me to ‘butt out’ after my first comment,” and here Garak made a mock-offended face, “I turned to Ensign Mendelman and said ‘My dear, I wouldn’t dream of insulting your abilities of discernment, so I’ll simply assume that you already know this gentleman’s reputation.’ At which point the good man became even more annoyed, and proceeded to accuse me of trying to ‘steal’ Mendelman from him. As you can imagine, she didn’t take that comment very well.”

Bashir just waited for more as impassively as he could, and Garak blinked and tilted his head just a hair, still the picture of affected innocence.

“Well, Doctor? You can hardly blame me for illuminating the truth of the matter.”

“Ensign Tal’paz doesn’t have the kind of reputation you’re implying,” Bashir said in an exaggerated whisper. “Or if he has, I certainly haven’t heard about it.”

“Ah, well in that case, I’m glad Ensign Mendelman came to her senses.”

“What?” Bashir blurted, squinting impatiently. “You’re not making any sense.”

Garak shook his head with a sad little smile. “Oh, Doctor. Are you assuming the worst of me as well? I never said what kind of reputation he had. Besides, as you’ve mentioned, it would never work between them; the _chemistry_ is all wrong.”

            Despite Garak’s clever play on words, Bashir was not amused. He blew out an exasperated sigh, flinging his head back momentarily. “Listen, Garak, I know you’re bored, but—”

            Sisko, suddenly very close, interrupted. “Mister Garak, I suggest you keep quiet around the rest of the crew… as much as possible.  Otherwise I may have to take Ensign Tal’paz’s advice and confine you to quarters.” Bashir glanced behind him and saw only Dax standing at Sisko's shoulder—Ensign Tal’paz had disappeared.

            “Captain, this isn’t like you!” Garak cried in such shocked betrayal. “Am I to understand I could be punished simply for _socializing_ with my fellow passengers?”

            “This is the fifth time this week you’ve caused problems,” Sisko said, punctuating his choppy words with an additional chop of his arm. “I need my people at the top of their game—they’re stressed enough as it is!”

“As I said,” Garak repeated coaxingly, hands spread slightly. “I’m sure this is all just a simple case of cultural misunderstanding! I _never_ mean to offend.”

Sisko raised an eyebrow pointedly at Bashir. “Then I’m counting on your _friends_ to act as translators. I don’t care how you clear this up, but I don’t want any more complaints about Mister Garak. Do I make myself clear, Doctor Bashir?”

Bashir gaped for a moment—he couldn’t help himself. He very nearly complained, but he could already tell Sisko wasn’t in the mood. So he swallowed his cry of _unfair!_ and nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Lieutenant?” Sisko snapped his head toward Dax.

“Julian and I will take care of it,” Dax said coolly, head held high.

“Good.”

Sisko left.

Bashir didn’t give Garak time to make some comment meant to belittle the cumulative effect of his obnoxious behavior. He rounded on him. “Let’s get one thing straight.” He jabbed a finger toward Garak’s chest and was surprised when Garak actually stepped backward to get away from it—granted, with a smile still on his face. “I know that you’re doing at least half of this on purpose and I’m telling you, it has to stop!”

Garak sighed indulgently, as if being yelled at by an impatient and spoiled child. “Believe me, Doctor… I don’t want to be confined to quarters. And getting tossed out an airlock by easily offended ensigns is only slightly less distressing of an idea. Why would I purposely antagonize the only family I have left?” Garak lifted his hands to indicate the masses in the mess hall and beyond, and Bashir didn’t miss the strange undertone in his voice at the word _family_. Garak was trying to tell him something, start a discussion, but he wasn’t going to bite. Not right now—Garak was a grown man, and it wasn’t his job to keep him from getting into fights. Or at least, it hadn’t been.

“Meet me in the infirmary in half an hour. You heard Captain Sisko—you’re going to run tests on all the medical equipment.” For a moment Bashir reflected on the fact that Garak could easily sabotage anything on the ship, and somehow they all trusted him not to do anything seriously life-threatening. “Try to stay out of trouble,” he added.

One side of Garak’s mouth quirked up. “Of course. It’s my specialty. But just so you know—perhaps _you_ haven’t heard of Ensign Tal’paz’s reputation, but I have reason to believe Dax has. Maybe you’ll believe _her_.” Garak smiled—threateningly? That precise lowering of his head, looking up from just beneath his eyebrow ridges. Bashir watched him turn on his heel and leave the mess hall, thoroughly confused. Garak wasn’t usually this petulant. What was going on?

“Oh come on, Julian.” Dax bumped her shoulder into his. “Why the long face? Don’t tell me you’re taking Garak’s bad mood personally.”

“I never thought I’d start to feel like his babysitter,” Bashir sighed, pulling her closer to the little nook Ensign Tal’paz had been eating in, so they wouldn’t draw stares. “I don’t know why nobody else can talk to him about anything! Everything has to go through me! And then it’s ‘Julian, can’t you do something about him? Julian, quick, distract him! Let him tinker with your tricorders, make sure you always sit next to him at meals so he doesn’t bother me! Tell him to stop making people uncomfortable!’ As if they couldn’t do the same thing. Well I’m _sorry_ , I’m tired of being everyone’s universal translator!”

Dax tilted her head from side to side in a shrugging what-can-you-do gesture. “So you’re upset that everyone’s so biased against him. But he _is_ a Cardassian. You can’t really blame them.” She smiled, and for a moment, she almost reminded him of Garak; that smile was a provocative thing, a way of saying it was his turn now. _What are you going to say to that, Doctor?_

“Of course I’m frustrated! Half a decade living on the same station and they can’t even summon the decency to look past a little racial stereotyping and _try_ to get to know him.” He took a breath before adding vehemently, “But he _knows_ he’s being difficult! So don’t you dare tell him that I’m ranting about Federation hypocrisy. He’d never let me live it down.”

Jadzia laughed a little and put an arm around his shoulders, making him want to blush for more than one reason. “Not everyone is as smart as you are, Julian,” she said. “But sometimes I wonder if Garak’s a lot simpler than you think.”

 “What are you implying?” Bashir glanced at her curiously.

“He’s trying to get your attention!”

“That much is obvious,” Bashir groused. “But we’ve been spending more time together than ever! I don’t know what more he wants from me.”

Dax sighed in that way that always made Bashir feel like she was playing the part of the infinitely savvier older sibling. When she spoke again, her voice was almost lecturing, but sympathetic. “Julian, you’re the only person he has right now. Ziyal is on Bajor. Odo is light-years away in what is now Dominion territory. For all he knows, he might never see either of them again. And you’re the only person who really understands him at all.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Bashir said, appraising her. “You seem positively full of insights about his behavior. Being roommates with him has obviously opened your eyes. Has he told you his entire life story?”

“Oh, wouldn’t _you_ be jealous?” Jadzia taunted.

“Jealous?” Bashir asked blankly.

“Don’t act so oblivious. It’s obvious there’s some history between you two.”

“What are you talking about?” Bashir lowered his voice to a worried hiss. “Jadzia, are you still passing rumors about me and Garak? I told you ages ago, there’s nothing going on between us!”

“That’s not the way I read it.” Jadzia looked positively tickled and aghast at the same time. “You can’t seriously expect me to believe you don’t notice how he acts differently around you than he does with everybody else. You’re the smartest person on the entire ship, and you can’t see what’s under your own nose?”

“You’re misreading his behavior—you can’t judge him by human standards!” Bashir protested. “Or Trill standards or… whatever else. It’s all just part of his game.”

“I have it on good authority—and by that I mean what Kira heard from Ziyal—that there was at least _some_ period of time where he _very_ clearly demonstrated his interest in you.”

Bashir thought back to Ziyal confronting him about his ‘feelings’ for Garak. That’s right, he had told Jadzia about what Ziyal had said. No use denying it.

“Even if he did, he’s not interested now,” Bashir said, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. There was only one person in sight, all the rest presumably behind the small partition that extended from the wall. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t give people that kind of… impression, about us.”

“How can you be sure he’s not still interested?” Jadzia prodded. “Did you ever confront him like I told you to?”

“Why are you so obsessed with this?” Bashir complained.

“I’m just looking out for my friends,” Jadzia said innocently. Her arm was still around his shoulders. It wasn’t helping his mood to have this confirmation that she was much more interested in an imaginary romance between him and Garak than she would ever be in a romance with him.

He sighed softly.

“So did you confront him?” Jadzia whispered

“Yes! Well, sort of… I asked him why he would play at something like that.”

“Oh Julian, you didn’t!” Jadzia groaned. “Tell me you didn’t phrase it that way.”

“Why not?” Bashir scowled.

“You set up the perfect escape route for him! Of course he wouldn’t want to admit it when you say it like _that_.”

“Well how else was I supposed to say it? If he really wanted to pursue a relationship with me, he would have done something about it by now!”

“If I’ve learned anything about Garak since I started rooming with him,” Jadzia said, “it’s that he keeps anything that could be a weakness _very_ close to the chest. Unrequited feelings are a weakness most people _never_ want to admit, Cardassian spy or no Cardassian spy.”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” Bashir muttered.

“What would you do if I told you I got a real confession out of Garak?”

“What?!” Bashir blurted, a little explosion of heat going off in his stomach and climbing toward his head. “You did? What did he say?”

Jadzia barely stifled her devious giggle and Bashir’s face commenced burning in earnest. “He hasn’t said anything—yet. But if I do get him to talk—and I will!—what would you do?”

“He’s not going to.” Bashir clamped down.

“We’ll see,” Jadzia smirked and walked away.

...

That night, Bashir had just finished gratefully changing into pajamas when O’Brien came through the door. The Chief stopped short

“I uh—hello, I was just getting—are you goin’ to bed?”

“Yes,” Bashir said, “In a few minutes. Why? Are you off for the night? Did you want to do something?”

“Oh. No. I mean, unless you want to.”

Bashir looked more closely at him. “Is something wrong?”

“What?” O’Brien had a deer-in-headlights expression. “Course not. Nothing’s wrong.” He jerked toward the compartments where their clothes were kept.

“Well, is there a reason you’re acting so… nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” O’Brien shrugged and tried on a ridiculously fake smile. “Why would I be nervous? I’m gonna go change.”

“Chief, come on,” Bashir said, blocking him. “Out with it. What’s bothering you?”

“I said it was nothin’!”

Bashir faltered, frowned. “Well, alright,” he said. “But you’d better start acting normal or I’m going to have to take you down to sick bay to figure out what’s wrong with you.”

O’Brien hesitated, trapped. “It… I just… heard some things,” he mumbled.

“What things? You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.”

“In the mess hall,” O’Brien confessed. “I was sitting at the table just on the other side of where you and Dax were talking. I didn’t mean to overhear.”

“But what exactly _did_ you overhear?” Bashir asked, with a faint feeling of dread.

“Well…everything,” O’Brien said, as if it were obvious.

“Summarize it for me!”

“Alright! Alright. You… Garak… something about… confronting him, ‘cause he….” O’Brien squirmed. “’Cause he….”

“Because he _supposedly_ has feelings for me, yes,” Bashir finished impatiently. “But why does that make you nervous?”

“Well it’s not true, is it?” O’Brien blurted. “You’re not letting him come on to you without telling anybody?”

“I’m not sure what exactly you’re imagining here,” Bashir said with exasperation. “Look, this all started because when I was replaced by that Changeling, the Changeling decided it would be easier to get information out of Garak if he pressed him into a romantic relationship. Garak cut it off after he found out the truth and he hasn’t brought it up since. Dax was just trying to… I don’t know… tease me a little, maybe.”

“But that means Garak thinks you’re….” O’Brien trailed off maddeningly again.

Bashir prompted him with raised eyebrows and a tiny jerk of his head.

“He thinks you’re… y’know.”

“Attractive?” Bashir finished. “I suppose he has said as much a few times. I never read too far into his compliments.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?” O’Brien asked.

“Why should it?” Bashir said. “It’s probably just lies, flattery, or a simple aesthetic appreciation. If Garak does feel any further attraction to me, it obviously doesn’t matter to him as much as keeping me at arm’s length. He’s repeatedly demonstrated that he doesn’t want us to get too close. So I really wouldn’t worry about it.”

“He just seems so….” O’Brien made a face. “Predatory.”

“Not in that sense,” Bashir said with a crooked smile. “Now, is there anything else you’d like to say before we set this topic firmly aside?”

“No. We’re fine. It’s fine.” O’Brien shrugged. “You’re right… you can take care of yourself. I’m gonna go change now.”

“Good idea.”

While O’Brien changed, Bashir got up onto his bunk and tried to put the whole matter from his mind. O’Brien came back and turned out the light. A few minutes of silence were enough to bring Bashir’s still-exhausted body to the edge of sleep.

“It’s not because he’s a Cardassian,” O’Brien suddenly said, and Bashir groaned internally. “That’s not why it bothers me.”

“Then why does it bother you?” Bashir mumbled, throwing an arm over his eyes in resignation.

“It’s just him.” O’Brien’s voice put on a brave show of nonchalance. “Say you _were_ in a relationship with him. It’d just be weird, y’know? The way he relates to people is just… weird. It wouldn’t be like dating another Starfleet officer, even if they were an alien. Well, maybe some aliens would be just as weird… but you know what I mean. It’s just… weird.”

“I’m not dating Garak,” Bashir pointed out wearily. “And I doubt I ever will. But if I do, I’ll be sure to remember how _weird_ you think it is.”

“I’m just saying… it’d be a bit like… how you were feeling about Dax and Worf.”

“Dax and Worf are apparently quite happy together,” Bashir sighed—Jadzia’s engagement was still a small sore spot with him. “Now… if you don’t mind, I think we’ve exhausted this topic of conversation. Can we go to sleep? Please?”

“Sure we can.” He could hear the apology in O’Brien’s voice. “Goodnight, Julian.”

“Goodnight.”

...

Garak braced himself as another volley rocked the Defiant. The panel in front of him blurred momentarily as everything vibrated, and commands shot back and forth around him.

“Two more Dominion fighters are locked onto our port nacelle!” yelled Nog.

“Evasive maneuvers!” Sisko bellowed. “Divert power to the weapons array, we’ve got to knock out their shields!”

“I’ve got a lock on them!”

“Fire!”

They missed and came around for another pass.

Garak focused in on his task, fingers flying across the panel, weeding his way through the transmissions that were being passed between the Cardassian ships in the battle-zone and beyond. “They’re diverting the left flank to cut us off from our reinforcements!” He rerouted the message so that it would reach the other Federation ships. “Still no calls for backup.”

“Of course not!” Dax yelled as another blast hit them. “We aren’t putting up much of a fight!”

“That Jem’Hadar ship is coming right for us!” Nog screamed.

“Fly below it!” Sisko commanded. “Target aft thrusters!”

“Locked! Ready to fire!”

“Now!”

“Direct hit!” Nog’s voice went from excitement to horror in two seconds. “Captain, we’re too close! It’s going to crash right into us!”

            Garak looked up for half a second from his work, only to see the bulk of a Jem’Hadar ship quickly filling the entire view-screen.

            “DIVE!”

            “We can’t!” Dax yelled. “The Odyssey is right below us!”

            “Brace for—”

            Sisko’s words were drowned in the deep bass roar of colliding metal. The ship gave a sick lurch—the crackle of electricity screamed in Garak’s ears, his body bounced between the seat and panel like a rubber ball for two seconds before he hit the ground hard on his left side. Stunned, he lay there a moment, then rolled onto his back—pain shot through his left shoulder, and he pushed himself up with his other arm. No broken bones, it seemed, but maybe dislocated ones. Sisko was just picking himself up too, and Dax was staggering back into her chair, a hand pressed against a cut on her head.

            “Dax, take us out of here! Mister Garak, give the order to retreat.”

            “Aye, Captain!” Dax replied. Garak silently pulled himself to his feet, climbed into the chair and transmitted the order.

            The screen blipped at him maddeningly. “I can’t transmit on any subspace frequencies.” Garak called. “The order to retreat will take a few minutes to get through. I’ve asked the Endeavor to relay any further transmissions to Starfleet for us.”

A weak cry of pain came from near Nog’s console.

“Cadet!” Sisko called. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Garak, take Nog to sick bay.”

“On my way.” Garak got up and hurried to where the Ferengi cadet lay on his back, dazed. “Anything broken?”

            “My head feels like it is,” Nog groaned.

            “Probably a concussion.” Garak grabbed the hand Nog lifted and pulled the Ferengi into a sit, then looped an arm around his waist to hoist him to his feet. “Not to worry. I’m sure Doctor Bashir can patch you right up.”

            “What’s the damage?” Sisko was asking as they left.

            “Complete structural collapse just above the emergency life support bay,” said Dax. “Subspace transceiver is offline.”

            “Get down there and bring it back online! Engineering has its hands full, and we need to be in communication with Starfleet as soon as possible. Ensign, take the helm.”

            Garak half-carried Nog, who was shaky and whose knees insisted on buckling every third step. Dax ran ahead of them and down an adjacent corridor. Panting in pain, Garak and Nog made it down the hall and to the turbo-lift, which thankfully came when they called.

            Then it was down another long hallway, stumbling as their shields deflected another blow, and a sudden, wrenching halt. There, up ahead, the ceiling just before the entrance to sick bay was bowed down, bulging and warped. A crossbeam had fallen, trailing sparking wires, across the actual door, which was open but smashed, collapsed accordion-like to half its usual size. Garak propped Nog against the wall.

            “Wait here,” he said, and the Ferengi sank to the floor with a nod.

            Shaking himself free of the dizzying fear that washed over him like an electrical field, Garak ran to the entrance and crouched to peer inside, expecting to be crushed at any moment. Smoke, dust, and blown-out light fixtures made it difficult to see, but by the blinking lights of the medical displays, Garak could make out the movements of Nurse Tagana. She was trying in vain to pull apart a bio-bed which—

Garak’s mind tried to remove itself from what he saw. It wasn’t real, it was ridiculous. Between the collapsed ceiling and the similarly distorted bio-bed, Doctor Bashir lay… trapped, face-down, only his top half visible, arms dangling limply toward the floor.

“Doctor!” He rushed to his side, kneeling to get a look at his face. The Doctor’s eyes were open, he was breathing—struggling for breath against broken ribs, no doubt, and he showed no immediate recognition of Garak’s face or voice. Garak yanked at the metal braces below, kicked at them, but they wouldn’t budge.

“It’s no use! We have to transport him out.” Tagana tapped her comm. badge. “Tagana to O’Brien! Requesting emergency transport for Doctor Bashir!”

“Where’s the emergency medical hologram?” Garak whirled on the nurse. “Computer, activate the EMH!” No response. “Computer, _activate the emergency medical hologram!”_

“It’s no use! The holo-emitters are shot!” The nurse tapped her comm. badge again. “Tagana to O’Brien, requesting emergency transport for Doctor Bashir!”

            O’Brien’s voice came in. “I heard you. Give us a minute; we’re still assessing the damage! We’ll want to transport him somewhere safe!”

            “The holodeck!” Tagana yelled. “He’ll need immediate attention from the EMH.”

“Right,” O’Brien said, “But we won’t be able to activate the EMH until we’re well clear of the battle zone. It’s taking all our power just to maintain shields, cloaking, and current speed.”

“If we move him too soon, he could lose too much blood,” said Tagana, scanning Bashir again. “The pressure from the cave-in is acting like a tourniquet.”

“You want me to wait?” O’Brien asked.

“How long will it take to get clear of the battle zone?” Tagana began getting a med kit ready and salvaging a small assortment of surgical equipment. Ensign Marlow, whom Garak had only just now noticed, was staggering toward the door on a broken leg.

The ship rocked slightly and the ceiling sparked—the ensign fell over with a howl. Garak flinched against the light and fought down the urge to run for the door.

“Stay down!” Tagana yelled at Marlow. “We’re going to get beamed out.”

There was a woman with a bandaged face lying unconscious on the floor, and over in the corner another patient, trapped as Bashir was between biobed and collapsed ceiling, flat on his back, presumably dead.

“Stand by.” O’Brien’s voice was a muffled crackle under the hiss of broken conduits and electrical panels.

            Bashir groaned wordlessly, panting open-mouthed. Garak took one of his hands—his cold, much too cold hands—in his own, then released it. For a moment Bashir’s eyes almost seemed to lock onto his but then his body jerked and his haggard panting increased.

            Dax’s voice came from the doorway. “Julian’s hurt? How bad is it?”

            “Dax!” Garak turned toward her. “I thought you were repairing the transmitter!”

            “I couldn’t get to it. Even the Jefferies tubes are smashed!”

            The ship rocked again and another cross-beam partially detached from the ceiling. Garak’s breath hissed through his teeth and his whole body twitched with adrenaline.

            “It’s going to collapse!” he said. “We can’t wait any longer! We have to beam him out or it won’t matter how much blood he _might_ lose—we’ll all be crushed!”

            Dax flipped open her own tricorder and pointed it at the ceiling. “Garak’s right, the room is unstable. Dax to O’Brien, transport everyone in the vicinity of sick bay to the holodeck right away.”

            “I’m having trouble getting a lock,” O’Brien’s voice came back louder, clearer. “Just a minute.”

            “It’s alright, Doctor,” Garak said, calm again. “We’re going to get you out! Just hold on for a few more minutes.” He half-crawled a foot or so away, and for a moment, the strange tingle of dematerialization was all he knew. Then they were in the holodeck, and his sense of embodiment came back just in time to hear Bashir scream as the blood began to flow to the nerves where the ceiling had crushed him. Bashir’s body made a feeble attempt at curling into the fetal position, before he went more or less limp, shaking violently and breathing in heavy gulps that sounded altogether too much like sobs.

            Nurse Tagana knelt beside him and opened the medical kit. Bashir’s midsection was dark with blood. Garak came back to Bashir’s side, tore his uniform open and saw where the broken metal of the ceiling had pressed through his fragile human skin. Nurse Tagana ran a medical tricorder over him. Garak watched her work, his body vibrating—but his mind was oddly clear.

            “G—Garak,” Bashir gasped.

             “Yes, Doctor?” Garak said.

            “M—my—p—atients,” Bashir choked.

            “It’s better if you don’t speak,” Garak said, laying his fingertips just barely on Bashir’s face. “You’re badly hurt.”

            “My patients, Garak!” Bashir snarled, eyes screwed up as he tried to lift his head. “I have to help them!”

            “You are staying right where you are, Doctor!” Garak yelled, even louder than he’d meant to. “ _We’ll_ take care of your patients, but for now, the best way you can help anyone is to stay _still!”_

            Bashir didn’t move. “Di—” he wheezed, “any of the—m—ake it?”

            “Ensign Marlow is fine,” Tagana told him firmly. “Dart survived too. There was nothing we could do for Sinha.”

            Bashir exhaled so forcefully that Garak felt nauseous until he saw Bashir’s back rise again. The doctor’s eyes fluttered closed.

            “Doctor?” Garak called, warningly. “Doctor, stay with me!” He pressed his fingers against Bashir’s neck to find a pulse and Bashir gave a shuddering gasp but continued breathing.

             “Is he going to live?” Dax asked

            “That all depends on how soon we can run the EMH.” Tagana said. “He’s not looking good. Broken ribs, gastrointestinal perforation, peritonitis, at least one hip fracture… and thoracic spinal damage.”

            “There must be _something_ you can do in the meantime,” Garak insisted.

            “I can give him a sedative,” Tagana said. “And try to contain the bleeding, but otherwise we’ll just have to wait it out. I might be able to limit the toxicity levels for a few minutes.” She reached into her medkit to pull out a few hyposprays.

            “I see,” Garak said softly. “Doctor….” He leaned down, resting on his elbow despite the zinging pain in his shoulder, to be sure Bashir could see his face. “Just relax. We’ll be out of this mess soon.”

            Bashir swallowed with effort. He started trying to speak, but Tagana administered the hypospray: Bashir’s eyes drifted closed, his breathing relaxed, and his shaking subsided.

            “What’s the matter with Nog?” Tagana asked, jerking her head toward the Ferengi, who was sitting against the wall, just as Garak had left him in the corridor.

            “Concussion, I think,” Garak said, straightening.

            “Lieutenant. Here!” Tagana held a medkit out to Dax, who immediately took it and went to tend to Nog.

            “Is there something I can do to assist?” Garak asked, eyes still on Bashir.

            “Here,” she said, digging out another hypospray. “Ensign Marlow is going to need some anesthetic for that leg.”

            While Garak went to tend to Ensign Marlow, Tagana continued to put pressure on Bashir’s wounds, scanning him periodically.

“Chief,” she said after a minute, “Doctor Bashir is losing too much blood and I’m afraid of what the shock is doing to his nervous system. We’ve got to get him into surgery before the rupture in his stomach poisons the rest of his body beyond repair.” Garak looked over his shoulder at her back and inhaled deeply. “How much longer until we can activate the EMH?”

            “Not yet,” O’Brien said. “Just hold on a little longer.” As if in agreement, the ship shook and rumbled slightly. Garak braced himself against the floor with one hand, and Bashir groaned weakly. Dax looked pale and Garak wondered faintly if he looked as distressed. He didn’t feel much of anything except the cold rush of adrenaline—he couldn’t afford to. In fact, it wasn’t until now, sitting here, that he noticed his own rapid, shallow breathing. In the background, Tagana rummaged in her medkit at intervals, while Dax helped Nog get more comfortable.

            “Alright,” O’Brien’s voice said. “I’m diverting power back to the holodeck. You should be able to run the program.”

            At a word from Tagana, the empty holodeck transformed itself into a replica of their sickbay, and a near-perfect likeness of Doctor Zimmerman appeared.

            “Please state the nature of the medical emergency,” it said.

           Tagana launched into a rapid-fire explanation. The EMH listened keenly and moved toward where Bashir lay. “Get him onto the surgical table. We’ll have to operate immediately.”

            And so they did.

            “If you don’t mind, I’d like a little space,” the EMH said pointedly, laser scalpel in one hand as he looked at the three people hovering over Bashir. “You’ll only get in the way. The Nurse can stay and tend to the other patients, but you two….”

            “Let’s go,” Dax murmured, putting a hand on Garak’s shoulder.

            Garak cast one last look at Bashir’s face before the EMH blocked his view. Then he turned wordlessly and followed Dax out of the room.

            Once the door closed behind them, he looked toward her.

            “What next, Lieutenant?” he asked carelessly. “I’m sure you have somewhere else you need to be.”

            “Maybe,” Dax said, frowning a little at him. “Or maybe this is where I need to be. Are you alright?”

            “Oh, it’s just a dislocated shoulder, I’m sure it won’t be hard to fix.”

            “That’s good, but it’s not what I meant.”

            Garak glanced at her sideways, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

            “Julian’s your friend, too,” said Dax. “Maybe even more than that. I’ve never really thought about it before… what I would do if he died young. For some reason it just seems like something that would never be allowed to happen.”

            “I’m under no illusions about what things are ‘allowed’ to happen, and which aren’t,” Garak said quietly, not wanting to follow her train of thought to its conclusion. “The logic of the universe is as merciless as it is unknowable.”

            They stood there for a moment, very near to each other. It gave Garak time for the shock to settle in—for him to observe it, prod it a bit, and then recoil when it sent shuddering cold through his system.

            “The EMH should have no problem,” Dax said. “It’s a very sophisticated program. Julian is in good hands.”

            “Yes,” Garak agreed simply.

            “But it always brings up questions, doesn’t it,” Dax continued in a reflective undertone. “When you might lose someone who’s so important to you. Things you wish you’d said… or wish you’d _never_ said. Everything that would be gone from your life if they were gone.”

            “Dax,” Garak said, “You’re trying to comfort me, aren’t you? Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s not working very well.”

            “Sorry.” Dax took a deep breath. “Think of it like this: he’ll be alright, so you don’t have to have all those regrets. Not if you don’t want to.”

            Garak stared at the opposite wall.

            “Are you ever going to tell him?” Dax asked.

            “Excuse me?” Garak blinked at her through the blessedly dim light.

            “I think you should. What have you got to lose?”

            “Maybe my shoulder is more distracting than I realized,” Garak said slowly. “I’m afraid I have no idea what it is you think I should tell Doctor Bashir.”

            “That you love him?” It wasn’t teasing, it wasn’t coy. It was all softness. The only edge to it was the fact that Garak knew she wasn’t convinced by his play at ignorance. “The worst he can do is say he doesn’t feel the same way. I think he would appreciate the honesty more than anything else.”

            “No offense,” Garak sighed tightly, “But this really isn’t the time to indulge in fantasy. I’m not interested in hearing you repeat the drivel of station gossip when there are actual lives hanging in the balance.” He gestured stiffly toward the door of the holodeck, his shoulder twinging.

            “Yes… Julian’s life,” Dax said intently. “That’s exactly the point. This isn’t about gossip—this is about you and Julian, and the fact that you would definitely regret it if you lost him before letting him know how much he means to you.”

            Garak got a quick glance at her patient expression. Then he went right back to his cool exchange with the opposite wall. “Have you considered that you might be… projecting?”

            “Yes. And I know I’m not.”

Dax looked like she was going to say more, but was interrupted.

 “Sisko to Dax.”

“I’m here, Captain,” Dax replied.

“Report to engineering. Chief O’Brien needs help with emergency repairs.”

“On my way.” She turned to Garak apologetically. “Get someone to look at that shoulder. We can talk later.”

Garak nodded and watched her run for the lift.

....

Later, when the surgery was over, Nurse Tagana emerged from the holodeck looking a bit haggard. Garak had left the door a few times to help gather other wounded crewmembers to the holodeck for treatment, and the less serious cases were still waiting in the corridor with him. Nurse Tagana had brought the others inside. It helped to have company, even if they were all a bit dazed from the attack.

“How is he?” Garak asked, before she got two steps out the door.

“Very weak. It’s a close call… too early to say one way or the other, but for now he’s resting. He’ll need to be monitored closely for the next few days.” Tagana looked at Garak’s posture. “There’s no point in hanging around out here—I can inform you if he regains consciousness, but for now he’s heavily sedated.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” Garak grimaced. “I believe my shoulder might be dislocated. I was hoping you could fix it for me.”

She did, and as painful as the process was, his range of motion was much better afterward.

“You should go get something to eat, or at least something warm to drink,” she recommended once he’d cautiously rotated his arm, testing it in a wide circle. He wondered if she could see the slight tremor in his fingers. She shooed him to the mess hall, but Garak wasn’t too keen on visiting the upper decks. Mess hall was right next to sick bay, and when he walked in, he couldn’t help noticing that the far corner of the ceiling was bulging in toward them. The sight did nothing to help his unenthusiastic appetite, but he ordered some red-leaf tea anyway.

            Everyone was quiet. The usual semi-cheerful hubbub was replaced with intermittent murmurs and hunched shoulders. Cradling his tea in both hands, Garak looked around the room—every table had someone sitting at it. He tried to decide which would make him more claustrophobic and miserable: a partially-collapsed mess hall full of people who disliked him, or his tiny (but intact) quarters.

          “Hey,” Dax’s voice came from behind him and he turned to meet her weak smile. “I heard the surgery’s over.”

            “Yes,” Garak sighed. “But apparently, the danger hasn’t passed.”

            “Let’s sit down.” Dax led him to a table where a lone ensign was staring at the last few noodles on his plate. They sat in silence for a moment, catching snatches of the conversations around them—mostly about who had died, who was injured, and how long repairs might take. Garak tried not to listen, but this wasn’t easy after a lifetime of training his ears to pick up stray details the way some fabrics pick up lint. Bashir’s name even came up a few times—two tables over, a few science officers speculated.

            “If Doctor Bashir doesn’t pull through—”

            “—starbase to get a new one, but we might get stuck with someone barely qualified—”

            “At least there’s the EMH.”

            “It’s not designed to be on all the time….”

            Dax sighed into her mug and Garak caught a whiff of Tarkalean tea. The ensign gave up on staring at his unfinished food and went to dispose of it.

            “When Julian is ready for visitors,” Dax said, “have you decided what you’re going to say to him?”

            “I’m afraid not.” Garak stared at his hands. “Did you and Chief O’Brien manage to put together a working sub-space transmitter?”

            “It’s passable. It’ll be enough until we can dock for repairs. If you want my advice, I’d start by reminiscing a bit about one or two of the big ordeals you’ve been through together. It’ll help put what you’re saying in a bigger context than just this one attack.”

            Dax didn’t even pause between topics. Garak glanced at her; she was watching him with concern.

            “Well,” she said, when he didn’t respond right away, “it’s just an idea. You know him better than I do. You’ll know best how to approach the subject.”

            Garak gave her a weary look. “If I do speak with Doctor Bashir, the only subject I’ll be approaching is how grateful I am that humans are much more resilient than they look.” He couldn’t help thinking about how fragile Bashir’s body had seemed, trapped between the metal jaws with only a Starfleet uniform to protect him.

            “Come on, Garak,” Dax whispered earnestly. “What are you so afraid of?  You don’t strike me as a coward… just a very careful man, and I’ve always been intrigued by the fact that you aren’t afraid to go after what you want, even if there are risks involved. But I guess you think telling Julian how you feel is an unreasonable risk?”

            “It’s a waste of time to extrapolate off your faulty assumptions about me,” Garak said. “You know that normally I’d be delighted to debate with you, even over completely rhetorical situations like this, but I’m afraid that at this particular moment, my heart just isn’t in it.”

            “That’s because I’m striking a little too close to home,” Dax leaned in closer so he could hear her. “My heart wouldn’t be feeling very playful in your situation either.”

            Somehow, she avoided sounding patronizing. Was it worth the energy to feign offense at her “misplaced” sympathy? Would she believe it? From her point of view, an insistent protest would only be evidence that she was right about his feelings for Bashir. And she knew him well enough by now that an attempt to laugh it off in these solemn circumstances would seem equally suspicious.

            He’d hesitated too long. He met Dax’s eyes and smiled gently.

            “You’re very kind. But I’m afraid you’re also imagining things. I _do_ care about Doctor Bashir, of course, a great deal. It’s understandable that you might misconstrue my behavior toward him.”

            “Am I misconstruing the fact that to a Cardassian, debate is an integral part of courtship?”

            “It’s also an integral part of many _other_ facets of a Cardassian’s life.”

            “But the more intense the debate, the stronger the relationship.” Dax paused, thinking. “How did Iloja of Prim put it… ‘To deserted ears, the music of invisible battles, as the cheerful turmoil of a fresh spring would parch my tongue… grown dry and lonely for conflict, whence comes life.’”

            Garak didn’t bother to mask his surprise at her recitation. “Very impressive. You always have another surprise up your sleeve, don’t you?”

            “I imagine Iloja’s exile on Vulcan gave him plenty of time to miss the loved one he wrote that poem about, and the debates they shared,” Dax said. “Vulcans _are_ good at debate, in a way, but for them it’s more about logic than conversation.”

            “True.”

            “I was lucky enough to meet Iloja in person, as Tobin Dax. He was a very lonely man with an extremely short temper—but he wrote some beautiful poetry. Have you read much of his work?”

            “No, I’m afraid I haven’t,” Garak lied. “A shame, really.”

            “I have a small collection you can borrow any time. But back to my point. Cardassian behavior during courtship is all about testing one another. Competitiveness. Seeking the other’s company and then teasing them incessantly, pulling them into bickering or debates and becoming sullen if the other seems disinterested in confrontation.” Dax paused to take a sip of her drink. “That time in the mess hall with Ensign Tal’paz? You were trying to goad Julian into a debate by making fun of how the Federation acts like one big happy family, but he didn’t catch on, so you got offended. And if I’m not mistaken, when Julian refused to debate, you mentioned that I knew about Tal’paz’s reputation—you were showing off, trying to get Julian to ask so I would tell him that Tal’paz tried to seduce me once, too. Then he would feel like you were beating him in the game of knowing important information about the people around him. In case you were wondering, he never did ask.”

            Dax said all this steadily, in a rehearsed sort of way.

            “I can see you’ve been preparing for this,” Garak said wryly. “I’m sorry that all your research is going to have to go to waste. That’s what happens when you try too hard to prop up an unlikely hypothesis. To start with, I had a headache that day and felt like sharing a bit of my misery with someone else.”

            “I’m not buying it, Garak,” sighed Dax. “I’ve got lots more examples where that came from. About two months ago you started teasing Julian about his haircut being too short. You even started mentioning the word ‘short’ at every opportunity you could find. He didn’t find it very funny. As I remember it, you complained about him being short with you.”

“I was demonstrating to him that our earlier conversation about puns had sunk in,” Garak said, feeling faintly resentful that right now, he would like nothing better than to hear that badly barbered doctor scoff at an unimaginative joke. “Granted, I might have gone a bit overboard.”

Dax laughed a little. “Anyway, he said that right now there were more important things for him to worry about than being attractive. At which point you said something about how some people don’t even have to try most of the time. If that’s not flirting by both human and Cardassian standards, then what is it?”

            “Good conversation?” Garak suggested. “Bad conversation? A failed attempt at replicating human jokes? In any case, as you said, he was not amused.”

 “So maybe Julian doesn’t recognize the way Cardassians flirt. Maybe he believes you really _do_ just love to talk, and he just happened to be the only one consistently willing to listen. But don’t you want to know for sure?”

            “I think someone as intelligent as Doctor Bashir would know when he’s being approached in such a way,” Garak replied in as unconcerned a tone as he could muster. “The truth is, I’m not interested in a serious relationship with him, however attractive he might be for a human. But… I do enjoy the debates. Our current boundaries are perfectly satisfactory, and I’d hate to do anything that would upset them.”

            Dax sighed very slowly and softly. “That’s right. Cardassians and their boundaries.”

            She didn’t say anything else for a while, and Garak thought she had finally given up. The conversation had been a good distraction from the dented ceiling, but not from the fact that Doctor Bashir was still lying unconscious and there was still a chance for something to go wrong. There was no use wondering what Bashir would say if he knew the full extent of his feelings. Better not to find out, in any case.

            Dax shifted in her seat to face him more squarely. “When we first left Deep Space Nine, you barely had any personal space when you were around him. But you keep a safe distance from most other people unless you’re trying to intimidate them. Lately the distance between you and Julian has been getting a little bigger every day—and you’ve been getting less playful. You keep bringing him tea—yes, I know about that too—but when he invites you to spend time outside of work you shy away. This all started after that time in sick bay….”

            “What time are you referring to?” Garak asked warily, although he thought he might know.

            “Three attacks ago,” Dax said.

Garak exhaled a laughing undertone in acknowledgment of the crew’s new timekeeping methods. It was becoming common to reference time that way.

“We had a lot of wounded,” Dax continued. “I fell from the second level of engineering. You had to help carry me to sick bay. I remember it all _very_ clearly.”

            “Yes, it… _was_ a particularly unpleasant battle,” Garak agreed, waiting for her to get to the point.

            “Everyone thought the ship was going to be destroyed. Shields were down to fifteen percent, our cloaking systems were offline, and the ship was rocking so badly from enemy fire that you had to hold Julian steady while he scanned me for internal damage.” Dax’s composed expression took on a grim edge at the memory. “I saw the whole thing. When we finally broke off from the fight, and O’Brien announced he got the cloaking systems back online… and the ship stopped shaking… everybody was yelling, we were so shocked to still be alive, and Julian turned around in your arms and you were shaking each other by the shoulders. He let go before you did, and I saw the way you were looking at him, wanting to pull him closer.” Dax was barely blinking, and Garak stared back, determined not to give her any clues by his expression. But he already knew his rapt attention was all too telling. She shook her head, looking away first with half a smile. “I wish I had a photograph of your face so I could show you how it looked. If I didn’t know any better I would have thought you were going to kiss him. Julian broke away to go work on another patient and you just stood there watching him.” Dax’s smile turned sympathetic. “After that, I started to notice that you never let him touch you anymore. I’m willing to bet that’s because it feels too dangerous now.”

            “Or perhaps I’ve just grown so tired of human contact that even Doctor Bashir’s is intolerable,” Garak replied in a low murmur.

            “Somehow… I doubt it,” Dax whispered. “You’re afraid. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. After all… if Julian started avoiding you, there’d only be me, and as well as we get along or as much as you might be attracted to me too, Julian’s the one you really want.”

            Garak stared at her, unnerved. “I suppose you _would_ assume I’m attracted to you. Well, you’d be right.”

            “Just like I’m right about you and Julian. I asked him about you, you know. He seems awfully convinced that your compliments are more flattery than anything sincere. Don’t you think he deserves to know how much you really care about him?”

            “I think you’ll find he wisely prefers to keep me at a safe distance.”

           “That’s funny… he said the same thing about you.” Dax nailed him with her eyes, and laid a hand on his arm. “He asked me if you’re annoyed at him, lately. Julian may be a genius, but he can also be really blind when it comes to things like this. Do you really want him to die thinking that you only tolerate him? That he’s just a diversion?”

            “He’s not _going_ to die,” Garak said, a low growl against the fear in his stomach.

            “You said yourself that life is unpredictable. Especially in war. If he survives this, he could still die in the next attack.”

            Garak coughed a laugh. “I thought you were supposed to be comforting me.”

            “I decided to stop insulting your intelligence by saying things that just aren’t true. I wish you’d do the same for me.”

            Dax stared at him, unyielding—not angry or threatening, just immovable. Nothing he could say would convince her that she was wrong. Nothing he could bring himself to say, because some treacherous part of him agreed with her… the part that was still hovering over the surgical table in the holodeck, reaching for Julian’s hand. She was going to keep at this no matter how many times he denied her, and every new, more desperate denial would only cement her conviction.

            “You may not ever get another chance to close the gap between you,” Dax whispered.

            “If I _did_ tell him, what would be the use?” Garak hissed back reluctantly. “I can’t afford to _be_ so attached.”

            “You’re already attached whether you like it or not. You have been for a long time. We’re all at risk of losing the ones we love or having them used against us. Trust me—I’m the one whose fiancé is out there fighting on the front lines. A reckless Klingon! And you know how much the Cardassian people hate the Klingons… I’m sure Gul Dukat _and_ the Founders would both love to make an example of Worf. I could choose to pretend I don’t care, try to distance myself from him, but the truth is that I’m already _way_ past the point where that would do me any good. The only thing that makes sense is to make the most of the time we have left.”

            “That is exactly what I’m doing,” Garak said softly. “I very much doubt a confession would bring us closer than we are now… if anything, it would push him further away, because even in the unlikely event that he feels the same, there’s obviously something else holding him back.”

            “What if you’re what’s holding him back?”

            “I am,” Garak said. “He doesn’t trust me, and for good reason. I can lie about anything—why not this?”

            “You don’t think he’d believe you? But you can’t know unless you try. I mean, honestly try for once. No games… just the truth.”

            “But the games are the truth,” Garak whispered, searching her face. “I would like to think I can count on you to keep your suspicions to yourself, but I suppose I know better than that.”

            “It would be better if he heard it straight from you, you know,” Dax sighed.

            Garak took a deep breath. He couldn’t even bear to think about the possibility Dax was proposing. And yet all he wanted was to be at Bashir’s side—it was a compulsion, like the familiar weight of Tain’s influence, but sweeter and even more dangerous. He couldn’t give in to it. Not when all the major events of his life thus far had proven that to live so fully for anyone else was a sure path to destruction. The only thing to do was to maintain the boundaries he already had, even though they so often left him more or less isolated.

            He sipped his tea, which was already getting cold.

            “Well, if Worf and I survive to have _our_ wedding, you’re certainly invited,” Dax said.

            Garak smiled at her as thanks for the slight change in topic. “Well, thank you. I’m not sure it would be wise for a Cardassian like me to attend a Klingon wedding, but I do appreciate the sentiment.”

            “You’re welcome.”


End file.
